This Modern Love
by Willa Dedalus
Summary: Mary and Matthew's lives intersect, mold, and shape together. Time is connected through nonlinear building blocks. Their infinite love is the common link. The essence of their journey together is perspective. "Time is an illusion." – Albert Einstein
1. Fragments

Welcome! Well this epic saga will be _nothing_ like my previous fanfics but I promise it will be lots of fun!

Come meet Mary and Matthew in this nonlinear Modern AU...

But first I must thank my friend R. Grace because she has **_always_** supported my writing each and every step of the way. *Round of Applause* This saga is dedicated to her.

Authors note: In this story let me assure you, never fear, Matthew will always be alive.

Disclaimer: Since this story is both _Modern and AU_ – beware some similar canon events and lines of dialogue are jumbled about mixed and matched or updated given the nonlinear format of the story.

Enjoy!

* * *

_"Sir,"_ said a voice. He had limited experience with hangovers, but he assumed that was his present problem. It must be. His head was pounding and his body was quite numb. When he thought of moving his limbs, they did not obey his commands. But he could feel the summer sun bouncing off the glass all around the bubble he seemed to be trapped inside. The heat was spreading, but he couldn't shift away; he couldn't move. It seemed to be pooling around his spine which suddenly awakened with a burning sensation. His head tilted forward, unable to move left or right. He heard a voice again, but the words were a jumbled mess.

"_Me hear can you Sir? Hear me? Can Sir you?"_

Everything was out of sequence. His perceptions were out of balance. The dimensions of time were not denoting, evolving, or arranging in a straight line. All actions in time appear to have a direction – the past lies behind, fixed and immutable, while the future lies ahead and is not necessarily fixed. Events occur in a sequence, like dominoes falling. And yet time also seems random, as a wheel revolving in any direction.

This made sense, as he couldn't think. He couldn't understand what was happening. Perhaps time is not measurable; it can't be contained nor defined. There was a loud commotion all around him. He hated the white noise. It reminded him of chaos theory, a non-linear field of mathematics. Just like chaos theory, he felt sensitive to initial conditions and variables.

"_Mmmthw Crwlyy," the voice spoke up again. "Paramedic, Bruce. My name is. You can me hear?"_

His head certainly seemed to be spinning in a chaotic fashion. He felt his back burn again. And then he felt pain. With this sensation came a sudden breakthrough in clarity.

"_Matthew Crawley. My name is Bruce. I'm a paramedic. Can you hear me?"_

His memory took over replaying the car accident. The impact of the crash jolted through him in slow motion. He felt the steering wheel spin as he tried to hold it. It was a red light. A car had recklessly sailed through the London traffic, plowing into the passenger side, where his friend William was sitting. Matthew felt sick. Memories flashed before his mind's eye before he blacked out.

* * *

Numbers were like old friends to him. Matthew, from a very young age, loved mathematics. While at play in his sandbox, the only words he'd spoken were numbers. He had tried to count each grain of sand, but he had given up. Someday he could do it though; that is what his papa told him. Matthew was always thinking, but rarely talking. Sometimes this took a toll on him as a little boy who became impatient when he couldn't explain his thoughts or when he couldn't count high enough. What he saw in his head and what he could vocalize were often very different. Matthew thought words were inadequate, so his mama taught him sign language. As he watched her approach from his position in the sandbox his father had made for him, she signed to him, "I love you," and he signed back, "so much."

* * *

It was ludicrous. An absolutely god-forsaken idea, but he had gone along with it. He was enriched with her love because Mary always made him feel so alive. Matthew didn't mind the mess as he lay on the cold kitchen tile, beads of sweat dotting his forehead. Her ideas about making love continued to surprise him. He had been in the middle of making pancakes from scratch to bring her breakfast in bed when she had changed his plans. The batter and syrup suddenly became body paint, the flour thrown up into the air as a distraction between passionate kisses. Matthew could tell the refrigerator was still open because it was blowing cool air on his bare ass. This was not how he usually spent his Sunday mornings. But his life had changed; _their_ lives had changed since their rendezvous in New York City.

"Open you mouth," his seductress demanded. He had never imagined he could love anyone the way he loved her. It was physically impossible to possess unlimited affection for a person. Mathematically impossible, and Matthew loved numbers. It should not have been allowed by the very nature of nature itself – and yet she was here – and he loved her all that much and, possibly, even more. Matthew didn't need to open his eyes. He trusted her. There was a strange whooshing noise, and suddenly his mouth was full of whipped cream. The sweet taste was followed by the sweetness of Mary's mouth on his.

"I love you," she purred, licking a dollop of sticky syrup that had landed on his check.

* * *

The book _"Einstein's Dreams"_ sat on his desk. He knew passages of it by heart. His father had read it to him, and the words had stuck. He'd requested it be read it aloud to him again and again. It vibrated through him because it just made sense. To Matthew, it felt as musical as the piano chords of Chopin. The words were as crisp and clear as a Shakespearian Sonnet. Matthew enjoyed his studies at Cambridge, yet he still felt he was different from the rest of the students.

He looked up from his doodle - a long _möbius_sketch - to connect with his teacher's eyes as she referenced the assigned reading. She was a beautiful woman, he suddenly realized. But the notion made him squirm in his seat. He didn't miss being homeschooled anymore, but he did miss his mother and this environment was still hard to adjust to. His awkwardly chubby body was crammed into a small seat. He sighed. His stomach growled. _I don't belong here_, he thought, his mood melancholy. But, as he looked down at the book on his desk, he could still hear his deceased father's voice reading to him.

_"Some say it is best not to go near the center of time. Life is a vessel of sadness, but it is noble to live life, and without time there is no life. Others disagree. They would rather have an eternity of contentment, even if that eternity were fixed and frozen, like a butterfly mounted in a case."_

* * *

She was not his type of woman. In fact, it was safe to say she was out of his league. She was brash, outspoken, and it grated on his nerves. But she had an infectious laugh. It had been taunting him all night.

Matthew had been invited to the opening of the new component to the vast Crawley Empire. Everything commercial from soap, tea, and wine, to real estate and banking could be connected to this family's history. They were members of the peerage and held more royal warrants than any other enterprise in Britain. It amused Matthew that his own last name was similar; actually it was identical but pronounced differently. Matthew did not know what to think about this, but he couldn't deny the coincidence.

It was through his work as a financial consultant that Matthew had met Robert Crawley. He was an avid financial speculator, having inherited this sixth-generation family company. Robert was constantly working to promote his legacy. Matthew admired the man and always accepted his invitations. Ever since they had bumped into each other at the London Symphony, their casual acquaintance had changed. Robert had old-fashioned ideas and three daughters. Matthew thought the earl's matchmaking was ridiculous. Besides, he already had a girlfriend - his childhood sweetheart, Lavinia Swire. He heard the laugh again as _she_ came up behind him. Matthew could smell her ginger perfume.

"_Mr. Craw-lee,"_ she said, her smooth voice edged with a puckish tone. "What on earth are _you _doing here?"

"Hello again, Mary," he responded politely as he braced himself for her attack.

* * *

When Matthew first attended nursery school and could already read but would not speak, his teachers speculated he was borderline autistic. There were other labels slapped onto him from a very early age too. He was different, and he felt the stigma. But his parents would not medicate him and did not accept the diagnosis. As they were both practicing in the medical field, they knew there was nothing wrong with their only child. He was only shy and sensitive. His Mama decided she would home school him until he was older. His Papa read him books on famous scientists and mathematicians. At home Matthew was free to be himself.

* * *

"You said, 'yes'. I still can't believe it," Matthew said, walking his fingers idly up his new fiancé's arm. She lay next to him, face to face in bed, their naked bodies wrapped in a cocoon of sheets. Her eyes were closed, but he kept talking. "There must be something wrong with me," he continued, "because this just isn't how I saw the night ending." His voice was soft and reverent. "I just read your letter and bought the plane ticket. I didn't tell anyone what I was doing or where I was going. Nobody even knows I'm here."

"I know you're here," Mary breathed affectionately. "And it's morning now," she said with a mischievous lilt to her sleepy voice.

"Well, good morning then, my future wife," Matthew said as he leaned over and kissed her chastely until she responded more furiously. She rolled on top of him, eventually, as they finally came up for breath. Mary nibbled the sides of his face, kissing the sensitive skin that had perpetual razor burn to distract him. He seemed to particularly enjoy the action, and she made a mental note of the fact.

"Husband," Mary whispered lightly, reveling in the way Matthew's face beamed proudly. "Just trying out the word," she explained as if it were a test drive. She kissed his nose rather than his mouth, teasing him.

"Boyfriend? Lover? Fiancée?" Matthew prompted her serenely.

"No," she said sternly. "We've skipped all that; it wasn't necessary." Mary continued lovingly, "I'm going to always call you darling, because you make me feel like Wendy Darling to your Peter Pan."

Matthew smirked at her tenderly. "If you ever want me to finish that question I tried to ask, I'm at your disposal."

"I don't care about the proper proposal or the finished question because you are my answer," Mary responded, kissing him again.

Matthew returned her kiss as dawn broke over New York City's horizon. It was February fifteenth, and yesterday they had met at the Empire State Building after a long separation. They had found each other, and this was the start of their lives together.

* * *

When he was six years old, he asked his parents about bravery. Matthew thought numbers were brave the way they just kept going -they did not stop and they never ended. He liked the way numbers could change and yet still stay the same.

"Papa," he said, "can you plan to be brave?" His father smiled at him as he sat next to his family. Matthew was sitting on his Mama's lap with books all around him on the sofa.

His father said he would take him to the hospital tomorrow where he could, in fact, meet someone he deemed brave. His mother agreed to the plan as she knew who his father was speaking of. The next morning, he walked into a sterile room holding his Mama's hand. His father took out two pieces of peppermint candy from his pocket and handed one to him and one to the child in the hospital bed.

"This is Lavinia, Matthew," his father said. "She has been very sick for a long time, but she can still smile. I think she is a very brave girl."

Matthew looked at the frail little girl in bed. She wore a pink kerchief over her head. Her eyes were timid, but hopeful. She seemed to almost disappear in the bed because of the white sheets and her pale complexion. There were tubes and wires hooked up to both her arms, holding her prisoner in her sterile cell. Before his father could say anything more, Matthew took a step forward, releasing his Mama's hand. Lavinia fiercely clutched a small, worn Paddington bear. She looked scared, and he wanted to help her.

"You do look _very_ brave," he said to her. "My name is Matthew. Can I be your friend?" He gazed hopefully up at her, suddenly overcome by Papa's example of what bravery meant.

The little girl batted her eyelashes at him and nodded her head, and so he smiled.

* * *

"Matthew," she said in a low whisper, "that isn't true."

"I'm not like you Livy," he shot back, biting his lip, which was quivering. "I'm not brave."

They were talking on walkie-talkies. Though they were thirteen now, they hadn't outgrown the toys. Matthew pressed the button to talk and held it, but no words came. He felt the tears rush down his face as he sat on the floor, his bedroom door locked. Nobody could come in, and he wasn't going out. His Papa had died that morning of a sudden heart attack. Matthew thought about those words. _Heart. Attack._ It wasn't fair.

"Matthew, I lost him too," his friend's voice came through the toy device. "He was my doctor, my friend. My savoir."

Matthew listened to his friend. She was right. His papa didn't just belong to him. It took tiny fragments of his pain away to know that others would grieve, could understand the way he was feeling.

"What if I get sick again? I don't want anybody but him!" she cried, her voice wavering on the words.

"Hush now," the words of his mother came through the walk-talkie. There was a knock on the door.

"Matthew," his Mama spoke gently, "you're going to be okay."

* * *

"I have a favor to ask."

Matthew looked up at Williams words and took another sip of his drink. They were at a charity function that would benefit leukemia research. Matthew's oldest friend and girlfriend, Lavinia, had succumbed to the illness just last year, yet he felt he still had to attend to keep her memory alive. Matthew only wished Mary could be with him tonight; her presence would calm his nerves, but he couldn't deny his fiancée when she had wedding errands to attend to. So, he had corralled William, his personal assistant, into coming along with him.

Tomorrow was Friday, and Matthew was very grateful because he was exhausted. His work load as a financial consultant seemed to be constantly growing. In a way, this was good because it meant he was trusted by so many individuals, yet it was also overwhelming to be juggling so many different people's lives. Matthew felt the responsibility keenly, and did not want to ever let anybody down.

With Mary's blessing, he had recently converted the spare bedroom in their new condo into an office, though she had made him promise he wouldn't work too hard. He took another drink of his beer and looked at his watch. They could leave in another fifteen minutes or so, he estimated. Matthew watched his assistant as he sighed heavily, his fingers drumming on his glass; he was practically jogging in place. He knew that something was on William's mind, but his friend was still silent, which was not like him.

"Just tell me, William," Matthew said over the rush of what felt like a thousand murmurs and whispers in the convention center. He didn't mean to be so blunt, but he was tired and annoyed and never one for so much social chit-chat with the city's elite. He just wanted to go home.

"I'm sorry, boss, Maybe now isn't the right time," William responded apologetically. Despite the fact that William worked for him, Matthew considered him a friend first. He softened his tone and finished his beer with a final swig before turning his gaze on his friend holding a soft drink.

"William," he began gently, "is this about Daisy and the courthouse? I told you, whenever you need me to be your witness, I am at your disposal."

"Is tomorrow okay? I can clear your schedule, boss," William asked with a smirk.

"Yes, of course," Matthew answered enthusiastically, genuinely happy for his friend. After all, William had been badgering Daisy to get married for almost a year. It was about time, he thought. Matthew even felt a little jealous of William, since his wedding to Mary would not take place till next year, late summer at the earliest. The fact that they still hadn't set a date was rather annoying to him, but Matthew smiled at his friend's happiness and suddenly had an idea. "Tell you what. I will even drive you there."

"Thank you," William said with a big grin. He reached out his hand, and Matthew shook it.

* * *

Authors note: Each chapter of this story will now be a scene between Mary and Matthew. The nonlinear format will jump around in time. Stay tuned! Also on tumblr I will have pictures that showcase each chapter. Find me - wdedalus

I'd love to hear any thoughts about this story so please feel free to comment and thanks for reading!


	2. Maths Pillow Talk

**Chapter 2**

* * *

_Matthew could only see a fraction of Mary's naked body; the rest was tangled in the soft cotton sheets. Everything about her bedroom was a pale neutral color - pink, blue, and lavender. Mary's bedroom was aggressively feminine, and that amused him. She had borrowed the color scheme from the provincial region of France. The bedspread, window seat, curtains, and arm chair were all different colors that subtly seemed to influence each other. _

_ The entire penthouse was empty, except for the two of them. For now, they were alone, and it was bliss. Matthew sighed contentedly. However, they did need to find a solution to their cohabitation problem. Mary deemed his flat in Camden completely inadequate for the two of them, and she still lived with her parents. The obvious conclusion was that they needed to live together in a new location, so the search had begun in earnest. _

_ Mary represented proof, Q.E.D. She was the conclusion to a problem he hadn't even known he was trying to solve. Quod erat demonstrandum was the proper mathematical expression, meaning "which had to be demonstrated." Matthew looked at Mary as she slept. Mathematical philosophy had always been his vehement passion, but he had rarely ever shared it with anyone. The formulas were intoxicating to him, but scorned by most. He could not explain the attraction, so, he'd buried this passion deep inside himself. _

_ Only recently had he let this interest influence him regarding his actual life. He had been home schooled by his mother and then attended Cambridge, where he pursued a law degree. It was a very practical application of the talents he wanted to put on display. Furthermore, he wanted to help people, and the law, he felt, gave him that opportunity. Lavinia had loved the idea, as her father was a lawyer, so he had gone forward with this career plan. _

_However, his chosen occupation did not inundate him with feelings of accomplishment. It was his mother that had told him to leave the legal profession. He'd hated to give up before his career had even begun, but it had been an easy decision to make, nonetheless. Because he knew his mother was right. It was important to love what he did for a living, to have passion for his work._

_ Matthew knew his mother loved her work as a nurse, and he knew his father had held similar emotions about being a doctor, though he was no longer alive to express them. Perhaps it was because of his father's passion for his work that Matthew had avoided it with his own occupation, for when he was only thirteen years old, his father had died of a massive heart attack. Matthew suspected that he had been so immersed in his work that he'd ignored the symptoms of his own illness. There was nothing to reflect back on that gave any indication to his work colleagues or his mother before his heart gave out. _

_ Matthew lay still in Mary's bed, his mind racing back and forth over his memories, his hopes, and his dreams. He thought of his past and about their future. Everything in his life was working out; the sequences could actually be explained. Sometimes he wistfully felt as though he were living in an ongoing maths theorem, and it thrilled him. His occupation now as an independent financial consultant, in some ways, was akin to a history teacher, researching and teaching. His advice to his clients made him feel like a financial doctor, guiding and tweaking an individual's recovery from crisis. He worked with practical applications for numbers which he found enlightening. Matthew was always planning for the future when he worked the numbers for his clients. Additionally, he participated in raising awareness for Leukemia research at benefits with his pledge drives, keeping the memory of his childhood friend, Lavinia, alive. In exchange for a donation, he would offer stock tips, which proved a very successful fundraiser. This was also how he had originally met Mary's father, Robert. _

_ His personal investment with Mary, their lives intertwining everything around him, only grew to astonish him. Matthew yawned suddenly. He knew he should be exhausted - and he was . And yet he could not sleep. All he wanted was to watch Mary sleep and let his mind drift languidly. He reached out to lightly stroke her face with the back of his hand. It wasn't very often that he got to see her asleep, after all. He had a ritual of going to bed fairly earlier so that he could spend some time rowing on the Thames in the morning before he went to work. _

_ And since Mary had a trust fund to live on, her "job" entailed fashion advice and writing critiques on her personal blog. So, she often stayed up late, sometimes through the night. At first, it had shocked and rather confused him to wake up to her speaking different languages, sometimes French, sometimes Italian, while talking on the phone at three o'clock in the morning. He would roll over in bed and see her laptop perched over the covers as she worked away, expressing all the multitudes of opinions she had about everything. But he had grown quite used to that pattern by now, especially the way she would lull him back to sleep with late night exotic acts of passion. Or other times in quiet, simple acts of domestic ritual, she would simply start brushing her fingers through his hair and over his forehead until he had been relaxed back into a doze. So, in this moment as he watched her, he cherished the reversal. _

_ There were so many thoughts in his mind, so much love in his heart, that he couldn't contain it any longer. He was no longer content to simply think his thoughts; he had to express them aloud, even if she was asleep and wouldn't hear him. The sentiments were too important to him to not vocalize, all of a sudden. He felt a frantic merriment at the thought of finally exposing how he really, truly felt in a language that meant more than anything to him. _

_"You are my PI – my constant," he whispered softly to Mary's sleeping form, tracing light circles on her arm._

_"Mary," he said, "I'm saying I love you, in my own way. I'm saying that you are my golden ratio, that you describe the proportions of everything in nature to me. It all seems stripped down and explained. From nature's tiniest building blocks such as an atom, to the advanced formations of celestial bodies in the sky, everything corresponds into a pattern. In the Fibonacci sequence, everything is mathematically measurable." _

_ Matthew pulled himself up on his elbow to reach across the small divide between their naked bodies to kiss Mary lightly. He could not deny the impulse. As he nestled back into the soft bedding, he once again lightly traced his fingers in the circular shape of a möbius - the symbol for infinity - on her bare skin. _

_"The golden ratio of 1.618 is a fundamental function," he found himself unable to stop speaking out loud. There was still so much he wanted to explain. "There is proof, Mary. For example, the diameters of opposing spirals in sunflower seeds have the 1.618 ratio for each rotation," Matthew could feel himself getting excited as he thought about all of the connections he knew of, all the data that was stored safely in his head. Had he kept the statistics for this purpose all this time, to one day express his love for her through maths? The prospect made sense to him; it connected to the formula that had been evolving as their relationship continued and strengthen._

_"And honeybees," he continued, "if you divide the bees in any given hive between male and female, the ratio is 1.618._

_"Finally, Mary, this one I know you would appreciate. When you look at how long it took us to become lovers in relation to how long we knew each other, the ratio is the same," a lump had found its way into his throat at the connection. "We had known each other sixteen months at that time last fall." Maths was truth, and this detail was far too significant not to be shared._

_"Mary, you balance my universe."_

_ Matthew stopped and took a deep breathe feeling rather self-conscious at his mathematical rant. At least Mary was asleep and hadn't heard his awkwardly jumbled speech. He took such significant comfort from numbers and the conclusion he had just shared. But did he truly believe that fate and mathematical ratios had brought him and Mary together? He feared he sounded crazy. Matthew ceased his circle drawing on Mary's skin and flopped onto his back. He threw his arms over his eyes with a faint groan of exasperation. _

_ Mary stretched next to him, and his body instantly froze, feeling exposed. She nuzzled him, kissing the sensitive skin of his neck, but he tried not to respond. He couldn't face being teased about what he had said. When he felt her light kisses start up and down his arms, which were blocking his face, he hoped that it would all be forgotten, that his embarrassing lapse into maths logic and love would escape unnoticed. He would not say any of that again, it was too risky. It was dangerous._

_"I've heard a lot of pillow talk in my day, but using maths is a first," Mary's dry, seductive voice purred. He felt himself almost flinch at her words. Feeling vulnerable, he tried not to respond to the delicate way she was tracing circles now on his arms. He felt her weight slowly expanding over his body. His groan this time was for a completely different reason. _

_"Matthew, my love," she said, her voice soothing to his raw emotional state. _

_"Darling," she whispered calmly, and Matthew felt relief. She understood. Her endearment was the code that allowed him to breathe again. He moved his arm to look at her, every fiber of his being aching to prove, and then accept, that the moment was really and truly happening. This was real; there was no need to feel insecure. _

_Mary straddled him, and he felt needy with desire. "Relax," she instructed, kissing him again. As she leaned over him, she whispered beguilingly into his ear, "Now it's my turn to tell you I love you... in a non-traditional manor." _

* * *

"Darling," Mary breathed as she sat, stunned into a daze by Matthew's bedside in the hospital room. She wasn't afraid, but she was anxious. Mary was overwhelmed, and yet she was also confident. "When you wake up," she paused swallowing down the tears, "I'll tell you I love you anyway you wish." She reached to brush her fingers through his blond hair - holding his hand was no longer enough. "I'll say the words in English or any language you wish." Mary smiled. "Or even better, I'll speak to you in our own language," she pledged lovingly. "Matthew," she continued, "when you wake up, we can continue that conversation. You taught me how to speak maths pillow talk, after all."

* * *

Matthew could hear sounds far away that his ears could not quite place. He strained and tried to concentrate. It was a puzzle, and he had always enjoyed a challenge. But, to his frustration, the best he could come up with was a tea kettle was whistling and a wind chime was vibrating. He wanted to open his eyes, but he was too lethargic. Matthew felt he was reclined comfortably although firmly pinned into place. Perhaps he was in a hammock, the light breeze of a summer afternoon's wind slightly rocking him back and forth. The weight he felt pressing on him... it must be Mary.

Enraptured with his memories, he realized he must be dreaming of Vienna and the vacation he had spent there recently with Mary. The Flederhaus, or Bat house, they had discovered was a public art installation of hammocks near the Museumsquartier, where anyone could enjoy a rented hammock. It was an unexpected discovery as they'd tumbled into the mesh fabric, working together to balance their weight and nestle their bodies against each other. Yes, if he was dreaming (as he was sure he was now) Matthew was satisfied to replay such a pleasant memory.

Their first vacation together, he thought wistfully. It had felt like a precursor to a honeymoon trip. And then, with pure admiration, with pride and devotion that could not be denied, Matthew thought of his fiancée'. Mary was consumed with planning their wedding. Although her preparations were ongoing, they would still have to wait at least a year for her to achieve her dream, her childhood fantasy. A part of him was horrified by the frills of being the groom in a society wedding with all the trimmings of marrying an earl's daughter, yet he couldn't deny her. He put aside his longing for a simpler approach. His friend William, he mused, had the right approach - city hall and a marriage license. Whenever his girlfriend, Daisy, had agreed, Matthew had pledged to be their witness. He would be slightly envious of William when this happened.

Matthew let his mind drift.

Mary was the butterfly effect on his life. Her entrance into his sphere of existence had started as only trivial, a casual acquiesce, then slowly they had become friends. But even then it was an odd relationship they'd shared. Matthew had been asleep at the wheel, and chaos theory had a lesson in store for him. In the broader picture, he'd evidentially felt vindicated for loving her. To him, silly though it may have seemed, his love of numbers, of complex mathematical algorithms, including the Lorenz system, all focused on chaotic solutions for certain parameter values and initial conditions. And Mary had proved to be his beginning, middle, and end. She was the equation, the formula, and the solution. In simple terms, when the problem is stable the value evolves. And Mary was value personified. She even allowed math pillow talk to enter their bed.

Matthew sighed, and the effort stunned him as he felt the pressing weight return. The sensation was drastically altered. It could not be a hammock. He was not in Vienna. Matthew wasn't even sure he was dreaming anymore. There was a vague sense of panic drumming in his now throbbing head. And then there was painful stimulation. He hurt everywhere, and there was a burning sensation in his throat, as if he had taken a sip of scalding hot coffee. And those sounds! The tea kettle and the wind chime. Separately they were mundane, familiar, and very domestic. But, when combined, they were irritating. The screeching of the boiling hot water and the never-ending ringing of metal against metal was harsh to his suddenly sensitive perceptions. He tried to conjuror up possible scenarios: Mary the bed hog, stealing his covers, hitting him with a pillow, lying across his chest. It was not right. Something was wrong. He was not dreaming.

Matthew silently gagged as a fresh wave of sensation assaulted him, -his sense of smell. _Hearing and vision_, you have betrayed me, he thought wearily. For the first time, he was absolutely terrified. He felt as though he was fragile and broken. Sight, touch, and hearing could not be processed accurately. Only smell remained in his memory. Matthew felt increasingly weak, and he didn't understand.

The cloying aroma of disinfectant was what he smelled. It was a mostly odorless substance meant to scour germs of a million different variations. He knew, or at least suspected, where he had landed without knowing the how or the why. But it felt wrong. He was never a patient; he was the visitor. This was incorrect. And yet his sense of smell told him differently. His Papa was a doctor. He knew this smell. His mother was a nurse. He knew this smell. And Lavinia. How much time had he spent with this smell? It was unmistakable.

But he missed the next association. Peppermint. It was the rich, minty fragrance his father used to hide to transform the ordinary into the extraordinary. He'd believed in aromatherapy, and, as a doctor, had used the scent to help the children he'd treated in the pediatric ward. Dr. Crawley had always carried the candy stashed in his pocket, ready for him to share. But Matthew could not smell peppermint; there was nothing but the alarming aroma of laundered linen in his nose and a rich, iron taste in his mouth.

Matthew felt dizzy, as though he were spinning in a figure eight. A hollow victory of words broke through his panic. If he focused, he now heard something, teetering precarisely, still unable to grasp his surroundings, as though he were Humpty Dumpy. He tried to garnish more information about his surroundings. He knew he was in the hospital. He knew he was probably a patient. The tea kettle and the wind chime were now life-sustaining machines. But he had no memory or accurate information regarding his situation. Only smells which taunted him. He wanted desperately to believe peppermint would waft before his nose soon.

A soft, wet sensation touched his face. It felt like rain when the drops fell sporadically, and there would be a mist of dew that followed its steps. When he was a little boy, he'd loved to watch puddles absorb and reflect the addition of each and every bit of moisture. A light drizzle that meant ripples could be studied and measured from where he lay in the grass. Thankfully, he had grown up in London, so he was very lucky that it was often raining. His papa had brought him new tools for his observations, even his mother's measuring cups once, much to her chagrin.

Matthew felt the warm moisture on his skin again as it slid down his face. He sniffed the air and felt another transition was happening around him, for he could smell ginger perfume. It encapsulated him, nourishing his mind to be calm and serene. He was certain he heard her voice. Mary was reading to him. Her voice was jittery but strong. _No_, he thought suddenly. _She's crying_. Matthew couldn't help but gasp at this revelation.

_"The Lorenz attractor is a set of chaotic solutions of the Lorenz system which, when plotted, resemble a butterfly or figure eight."_

"_Matthew!" _Mary stopped reading suddenly from the mathematical text._ "My darling!"_ Matthew heard the possessive punch of her words. He felt the vehemence of her attitude and the strength of her commanding voice, because he was the subject she spoke of with such passion. Mary was crying because of him, and she was now elated because of him.

"Can you open your eyes, my love?" She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice wavered. _"Please, my darling," _she pleaded._ "Please, for me, I want you to open your eyes."_

There was no refusing Mary.

"Only," he said weakly. Matthew had to pause and draw in a deep breath of her ginger perfume for strength. It had been his gift to her, this replenishment of her favorite scent. He'd left it on her bureau in their bedroom so that she would find it. And then he remembered leaving to drive to work. He drove the Jaguar they had been given by her father as an engagement present. This part of his memory seemed to trigger a vague sense of panic inside him, so he wanted to ignore the thought. Besides, even as he strained, he couldn't remember what had happened next. Matthew struggled, knowing he should, and he felt a spasm of heartache. Still, the memory would not come. It was blank and empty. He was a void.

There was nothing except smells connecting him to this world. He opened his mouth to attempt speech again, but found, instead of words crossing his lips, the arrival of a seductive ice chip. The cold object quickly dissolved and blissfully slid down his sore throat. Feeling a surge of energy, he braced himself to produce further communication. He would do anything for Mary.

"If…. you ….read to me," he said finally. Without delay, he heard Mary's voice again.

_"The Lorenz attractor is difficult to analyze, but the action of the differential equation on the attractor is described by a fairly simple geometric model."_

It was terribly difficult to pry his eyes open, and he felt queasy as he concentrated. His eyelashes fluttered, he imagined, as if there were butterflies' wings. When, at last, he achieved his goal, he saw Mary's face. She leaned over him, her long hair completely covering him, as she kissed him lightly on his lips. He thought briefly of the first night they'd made love, when her hair had cascaded over him like the pull of a waterfall. Matthew had never before felt such passion course through his inexperienced heart. How on earth was it possible to have been given such love by this woman, he remembered thinking. It was still a question in the back of his mind, even though Mary was at the forefront of his heart.

With very heavily drooping eyes, he watched her. She took his left hand gently into her own and placed it over her heart. They both had tattoos of the mathematical symbol called the Lorenz system in this exact location. They had gotten the tattoos together in Vienna. When drawn, the mathematical model resembled a butterfly or a figure eight. Matthew hoped he was smiling, for he was bursting with love for her.

"_I love you,"_ he heard her say. All he could reply before his eyes closed and he again slid into darkness was simply, "_Mary_."

* * *

Thank you to everyone who favorited, followed and reviewed this story! Remember to check out tumblr - wdedalus.

And thanks 1 x 10 to the 6th power to R. Grace for _all_ of her imput and help with this chapter.


	3. Ask William

This chapter is best explained by the hint that it depicts, "Foreshadowing that works backwards."

My thanks to R. Grace for the quotation. I couldn't ask for a better partner in crime.

* * *

On Monday, July 16th Mary's focus unexpectedly shifted. For the past seventy-two hours, the focal point had been adapting and coping. Now there was a new hurdle, and it was about controlling information, both what they needed to get from Matthew and what was being kept from him. The word Monday, derived from Moon Day, and the every evolving phases of the consequences of his car accident on Friday were still affecting the orbit of her world view.

Since he had suffered several compression fractures in his lower spinal vertebrae, Matthew did not know that his friend and assistant had died in the crash. His knowledge of the world around him was the crescent phrase of the moon, just a sliver of the potential, but as the new week began, his knowledge would be forced to enter a new phase - it would become the full moon. Soon Matthew would know everything.

"Ask William," Matthew said quietly as he eyes started to close. He pressed the button for a fixed dosage of pain medication on the device hooked up to his intravenous line. It was the only lesson he had already been taught.

"I love you Ms. Moneypenny," he whispered as he pressed the button again. "But you should know to just ask William," he yawned. "He's always willing to help." Matthews's voice slurred, and his eyes closed.

Mary bit her lip between her teeth as a fresh batch of tears overtook her. She looked to Isobel for support and found copious amounts in the older woman's fortifying gaze. When Matthew was eventually told the truth about his friend's death, Mary decided she would need to do _something_. She had no idea what this action could be, but she was confident that something would come to mind. After all, she had always prided herself on the strength of her convictions.

"Mary," Isobel said, breaking the silence. "If we can't get the information from Matthew, we will have to try another avenue." She sat next to her future daughter-in-law as they occupied seats next to Matthew's hospital bed.

"The combination to his safe should be on file with his solicitor. I am his power of attorney. With that information, I could authorize your father to make the deal for Matthew's book of business."

Mary looked at this fearless woman and was grateful to have her as a powerful ally. Isobel, as a veteran nurse, interacted with the doctors and nurses regarding Matthew's care and was able to form informed opinions. Though his lower back was crushed in the car accident, the doctors all projected he would make a full recovery. The word _eventually_ was repeated after every prognosis, however, and it had a slick, phony taste when expelled from a doctor's mouth. Mary was quite confident that all the medical staff was talking down to her, except for Isobel.

There were images in Mary's mind that she could not shake. She was haunted by the memory of William's girlfriend Daisy, wearing a simple white wedding dress and holding a wilted boutique of Sweet Williams, her delicate face beet red and horrified. She'd run past where Mary was seated with her father as they waited to see Matthew. Isobel was already with him. Mary knew what Daisy had just been told. A part of her had wanted to chase after William's girlfriend despite the fact that she barely knew her, but she'd felt a mix of numbing emotions that had kept in her seat in the waiting room. It was only later when Mary first saw Matthew unconscious and confined in his hospital bed that she'd wept, and quite hysterically. And it was not her father, but Isobel, that held her as she cried.

* * *

By Monday morning some elements of this reality had been situated and realigned. The missing piece was Matthew himself. He had barely been lucid during this time. Initially, Matthew was kept in a medically induced coma to monitor the swelling around his fractured vertebra. Several nerves had been pinched in his lower back, and the pain was very intense. Surgery might be necessary; they would have to wait and see. He had only been conscious for a very brief amount of time, just long enough for the required questions and tests.

Mary had deferred to his mother's judgment about when they should share the news about William. It was odd to Mary, submitting to another's judgment. She had always taken matters into her own hands since she was a very small child, and she had never before backed down from any challenge. Yet, with Matthew's care, she deferred to Isobel, confident that this was the right choice. It was the only viable option Mary saw, and it had enabled a completely new relationship to now exist between the two women.

Isobel had, therefore, called the wealth management agency where Matthew was an independent financial consultant to inform them of his car accident. The managing director, in order to handle the affairs of Matthew's clients, requested his book of business. And this was the tricky part because this information was confidential and belonged as an asset to Matthew. He alone was privy to his client's particular investments, yet he would not be able to manage them in his condition. Something had to be done. However, where was this client list? And what was a fair price for it to be sold to the agency? Matthew earned a commission of his client's assets as he managed their portfolios. With his information, the responsibility, and hence income, could transfer to the agency, so they were eager to buy Matthew's book of business, as it was called.

Mary listened as her father explained all of this, and once again felt she had to defer the situation. She was no good at helping with anything Mathew needed. His mother could help him medically; her father could help him financially. What could she do? As her father talked, she could see the warming of his expression when he mentioned her fiancée. She was relieved that her father's matchmaking had prevailed, because it had given her the time to see Matthew's stunning value. He was the diamond in the rough, and he belonged to her now.

"Mary," her father continued, "we can assume that Matthew keeps the book of business in his safe. Now we need to know the combination. Presumably, only Matthew knows this."

She nodded at this assumption. Mary knew he did keep important papers in the office he had set up in their condo. Matthew was extremely vigilant with his work. He had gone to law school before becoming a financial consultant, after all. And, even though she'd played his secretary several times when he had meetings, feeling very much like Ms. Moneypenny to this James Bond, Mary was still unclear about what exactly transpired behind closed doors. William had always been at these meetings too, she thought sadly. He would know exactly what to do; he would help if he could. Mary shuddered with resignation. This was not how she wanted Matthew to have to learn of his friend's death.

"I'll ask him when he wakes up," Mary offered her father reluctantly. She watched as he nodded, his own expression guarded. He took business very seriously, even if he was really only a figurehead for Crawley Companies, having inherited the sixth generation business. And yet, when she looked at her father, she saw the genuine anguish on his face, and it moved her. She reached for his hand and found that he was as eager for the comforting contact as she was. Mary knew he was struggling with his own feelings of culpability regarding Matthew's car accident, since he had given them the Jaguar as an engagement present. If he had not given them the car, none of this could have happened. Mary had never known her father to second guess himself in these kinds of unforeseen circumstances. However, she had never deferred responsibility either. They had entered uncharted territory.

So, she had gently cooed to get her fiancée's attention once the doctor and his mother had performed their standard checks regarding his condition.

"Matthew," she said tenderly. Mary was pleased at the way he almost smiled, and his glassy eyes tried to focus. "Darling," she coaxed as she gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "Remember when I was Ms. Moneypenny? We need to take care of your business. Can you tell me how to access the files in your office at home?"

Matthew's lips pressed together and puckered somewhere between the actions of a kiss and speech. He stared at her as if lost in a memory.

"_Ask William_," Matthew repeated, just as he had the first time. His dull, glassy eyes stared at her with something close to impatience. She was starting to worry, and not about the budding financial crisis. Mary felt a surge of panic as she watched his face. He turned his head to look at his mother's expression before returning his gaze to Mary.

"What aren't you telling me?" he croaked, his voice already emotional. Matthew turned his head again to look between the two women, and Mary flinched as she saw his pupil's become enlarged.

"Matthew," Isobel's calm voice spoke, breaking the tension. It was time. Mary squeezed his hand and braced for impact.

"Oh god," he gasped with rising panic, "William wasn't wearing his seat belt." Matthew's eyes closed as he seemed to gag on the memory. Mary saw tears float down his face as his breath came in little frantic poufs. He was so weak and ensnared in his hospital bed, pinned in place by the necessary back brace and intravenous line.

"I'm going to be sick," he whispered as his body trembled. Isobel was ready as Mary sat, seemingly stunned by watching Matthew in so much pain. The agony he was feeling seemed to have galloped straight through him and into her. Mary tried to escape to memories of the last time they had made love, when Matthew returned from the Leukemia fundraiser the night before his car accident. His tension had been obvious as she'd looked up from unpacking her shopping bags filled with her wedding purchases. She'd draped her arms across his rigid shoulders and showed him one of her new, smaller purchases: a magnet she had placed on their fridge in the kitchen. The Emily Bronte quote said everything about how she felt for Matthew. _"Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same."_ The pain and guilt he had felt about his stressful evening had quickly transitioned into an impromptu love making session, with Mary's guidance, and Matthew's full support.

Mary watched as Isobel discreetly pressed the pain medication button on Matthew's I.V., surprised when she then beckoned to her. So, Mary perched on the hospital bed and ran her fingers through Matthew's hair, leaning over him to kiss his forehead. Soon, Matthew had escaped reality again, if only temporarily. But now he knew. And, Mary thought with panic, she hadn't thought of anything yet to surprise him and bring him the cheer he'd so desperately need now.

Isobel immediately spun into action. "I'm going to call Reggie Swire," she announced evenly before grabbing her purse and leaving the room without another word.

Mary's head spun. Reggie Swire, Lavinia's father. Of all the people to be pulled into this mess, he was the last she had expected. He was also someone she had very little respect for. Mary had seen him during the nights that she'd spent watching films with Lavinia, and he had always seemed to her to be a callous and domineering man. But Reggie was Matthew's solicitor, the man they were now relying on.

Mary's unsteady hand reached for the book by his favorite mathematician, Edward Lorenz, and she stared at the table of contents, looking for the perfect selection. Mary wanted her voice to be a subconscious shield so that Matthew knew he wasn't alone, so that he knew how much she loved him. "Glimpses of chaos," she read as she took a steadying breathe. "It only looks random. Words are not living creatures; they can not breathe, nor walk, nor become fond of one another."

Mary stopped reading, feeling terribly useless all of a sudden. The image of Matthew being peddled like soap by her father appeared again in her mind. She'd thought him a chubby, awkward man that frustrated her by being so timid and so inarticulate. She had faulted him initially for qualities she'd come to love. It once again dawned on her that she had promised she would have a plan ready to cheer Matthew when he learned of William. The chaos she read about on the page was her reality, and she felt like a failure.

"Oh, my darling," she sighed in despair and put her head down on Matthew's bed, cradled in her own arms. "I'm sorry," she softly wept.

* * *

Mary had lost all sense of time when she heard footsteps, and the door to Matthew's hospital room opened. She didn't want to look at the intruders. Instead, she stared at her fiancée's drug-induced sleeping face. But when she did eventually turn her heard, she was surprised to see Reggie Swire was with her father and Isobel.

"Okay," her father spoke impatiently, his tone curt and bitter. "You've seen Matthew. Now may we have the combination?"

"Tut-tut," Swire said with the entire repertoire of the crass behavior he was known to display in court. "Patience!" He walked to a table by the window, and the summer sunlight framed his looming figure. His graceful movements were carefully controlled as he opened his briefcase to remove a single sheet of paper. Mary looked to gage Isobel's reaction. She had, after all, known this man longer than any one else. But Isobel's level-headed expression was an unreadable mask. This frightened Mary. Swire's character flaws were worse than she had thought.

"Isobel," Swire spoke with feigned charm. A small smile brushed up against his weathered face. "I'm so sorry about your son. It seems odd to be here with you under these circumstances; it was always my child that was injured, not yours." Mary heard the subtle accusation in his tone, the guilt, intimidation, and an almost gleeful spite in his insincere words.

"Reggie," Isobel's voice was calm and even, and yet there was reserve to it that surprised Mary. She could hear the strained history between these two people in Isobel's tone. "The combination if you please. You know I am simply going to hand it over to Robert, so let's get on with the matter, shall we?"

"Always the great diplomatic lady, my dear," Swire said with distain tinged with a subtle hint of attraction as he licked his lips. "Your manors are only one of your many pleasing attributes. I've always said Dr. Crawley was a lucky man."

Mary shuddered at Swire ogling Isobel and commenting on her widowed status. She couldn't imagine what Isobel had to endure after the sudden death of her beloved husband. Mary turned her gaze onto Swire, glaring at him viciously, and she saw her father giving him a similar look of disgust. Isobel simply scanned the paper Swire had given her.

"Show it to the modern female Tiberius," Swire said pointing to Mary, "Maybe she can decode it." His thin fingers trailed over his moustache, and a barely concealed smile distorted his face as he saw Isobel's obvious puzzlement.

"What did you call my daughter?" Robert stormed across the room, his voice booming with outrage.

"Tiberius," Swire answered coolly. "Mary behaved like the ancient Roman general. She deflowered Matthew so she could then devour him. Quite the crafty trick she played on my dying daughter. Mary just smiled and smiled, all the while being a villain."

Robert's rage deflated as he heard the accusation. It didn't make any sense. He wondered if Swire was just making a tactless joke until he saw the look of horror on Mary's face – the same expression she had made as child when her hand was caught in the cookie jar. And then Robert looked at Isobel, a glance between two parents whose children were the object of discussion. They were both stunned.

"Get out," he said with a sharp snarl at Swire. Robert walked briskly to the door and held it for him.

Swire shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly and retrieved his briefcase. He took his time snapping the latches and then checked his watch. As he retreated, there was almost a bounce in his gait. Mary thought him a veritable monster of a man.

"Give Matthew my best wishes," he said to Isobel. He took her hand and stroked it gently, though to Mary there was a kind of menace in his actions. She felt for the first time in her life like a shrinking violet when she thought of Swire's accusations.

"Goodbye, Reggie," Isobel spoke coolly, removing her hand. He winked before striding confidently out of the room, pausing to thank the earl for holding the door.

Mary stared at her elaborate ruby with diamond band engagement ring. The two crossing arcs that displayed the jewels seemed to mock her, as if they were displaying different paths and outcomes. Her throat was suddenly dry, and tears glazed over her view. She felt transported in time, as though she was a fallen woman, damaged goods. Mary thought of Matthew's reaction of horror that she had condoned their actions. The truth was very simple; she had acted on impulse during a passionate, vulnerable moment. And the sex that followed was a mutual desire. Although she had vehemently defended what had occurred, it was her only choice. She had to support her actions fiercely, especially when Matthew had been so mired into his guilt at having cheated on his Lavinia so soon after learning she was dying of Leukemia. He had accused her of taking advantage of the situation when he was drunk and distraught, and she was sober. But, in Mary's mind, it was their love that should be the focus, since it was raw and pure. She had thought it the most honest thing she had ever done, acting on that impulsive moment, but the circumstances were viewed in a very different context now.

Mary felt blindsided. On her deathbed, Lavinia had confessed to Mary that she wanted her boyfriend to fall in love. Mary remembered being astonished by this wish. Matthew had not spoken to her in weeks, and he'd ignored all of her attempts at communication. Mary had felt rather desperate, tangled in between two such good people. It was a very strange love triangle, because nobody would acknowledge it. So Mary had listened to Lavonia confess that she did love Matthew, but not passionately, and she knew this was a mutual problem. In response, Mary had made her own confession. Withholding the knowledge of their tryst, she'd simply told her friend that she loved Matthew, and that she hoped he would one day return those feelings. Lavinia had smiled as they'd worked together to form a plan.

Innocent Lavinia must have mentioned this confession and plan to her father. Swire had easily put two and two together. Mary straightened her posture in her chair and took a deep breath. She looked at her elaborate engagement ring, and it gave her strength to fight against the sour feeling in her stomach. The silence in the room was heavy, and she had to fill it. She only hoped her father and Matthew's mother would not judge her as harshly as her own thoughts were now condemning her. She realized once again how amazing it was that Matthew had gone along with the plan she and Lavinia had set in motion.

"I'm not ashamed of what I did," Mary said quietly. "Swire's assumptions are all correct." She bit her lip and her voice started to quiver.

"But Swire, of course, missed one fact." Mary brushed away the offensive tears that clouded her vision as she stared at Matthew. "I did what I did because I loved him. And I will _never_ be ashamed of that fact."

Mary, fortified by the accomplishment of finishing her speech, turned her attention next to her father. She felt exposed. He would not meet her eyes, so she returned her loving stare to her fiancé. Mary saw the skyline of New York City in her memory as she was drawn back to the previous Valentines Day, and she heard Matthew's voice saying, _"Can I ask you a question?"_ She didn't fight the tears now as they were tears of joy at the memory of that euphoric moment. Matthew had come back to her, and they had rebuilt their lives together from that leap of faith.

"My dearest daughter," her father spoke at last, offering her his handkerchief from his breast pocket. "I can safely say that, in the history of Crawley family mistakes, yours is by far the best mistake I have ever heard of."

"I agree," Isobel concurred with a small smile as she stepped closer. Everyone had wet eyes now. "But," she continued, transitioning the conversation, "Robert, here is the information to Matthew's safe. I can not make heads or tails of it."

Isobel held out the piece of paper for both of them to see.

_Combination to safe: __Principia_

_16-18-9_

_14-3-9_

_16-9-1_

"Knowing my clever child," her voice was no longer diplomatic but full of loving emotion, "I believe the combination is a riddle we have to solve to get the correct numbers."

Mary stared at the word, Principia. It sounded familiar somehow. Mary's eyes scanned her surroundings for her purse. She reached inside and found her mobile. Quickly, she typed in the word, and the first result the search engine found read:

_The __Principia__ is a common name for the __Philosophiæ Naturalis Principia Mathematica__, Isaac Newton's three-volume work about his laws of motion and universal gravitation._

Mary smiled. Of course that was why it sounded so familiar: it was maths pillow talk. Her attention was grabbed by the words "three volume work" and the fact that Matthew had a sequence of three numbers on the page. Mary had been reading maths philosophy books to him for days now, and since their engagement, she felt she had been given a crash course in the subject. She looked at her father and Isobel, handing over the phone with the information she had just discovered.

"Papa," she said, "do you have a pen?" Almost instantly, a beautiful fountain pen was placed in her hand. She tested her theory by scribbling notes on her palm. There were nine letters and nine numbers on the piece of paper, both spelled principia.

Matthew had, for her birthday, written her a love note using the alphabet's twenty six letters in number form. She recognized his simple code. If she had to guess his combination, given that Matthew loved to talk about nonlinear mathematical concepts, she would take the first set of numbers on each line as the combination. Newton was, after all, most famous for his observations on gravity. The answer was therefore hiding in plain sight. The numbers that descended, or appeared to be falling down the page, were the combination.

"Papa," Mary concluded triumphantly, certain she was correct, "16-14-16. Try those numbers as the combination, using them three times."

Mary handed back his pen and his handkerchief. Robert nodded and started to exit the hospital room. Images of Matthew crowded into Mary's mind. She saw him in her parents' penthouse under the bright spotlights and then in a darkened movie theatre. It was pleasant to remember those moments now. Mary felt a rush of inspiration, and the idea came to her. Just like Matthew's combination, the answer was hiding in plain slight.

"Oh, and Papa," she called after him as he reached the door. Mary smiled serenely. "Can you also call the vicar? I just thought of something that needs to be done tomorrow."

* * *

Thanks for reading.

I'd love to know your thoughts about this chapter!

Find me on tumblr - wdedalus.


	4. I'll remember

_Thank you for all the insightful and exciting reviews this story has garnished. I'm tickled pink! And also my gratitude to R. Grace is immeasurable, even maths obsessed Modern Matthew couldn't work out a formula that would probably equate my thanks! And now we can proceed to chapter four! _

* * *

_Mary let down her long hair as she peeked through the window into Matthew's hospital room. She was waiting for the vicar to arrive with her father and Isobel. Mary saw her mother and sisters step off the lift, and then, to her surprise, her grandmother Violet. She was a bride on the brink of heaven. Jubilation was a heady cocktail in her current state of mind. As was her habit, she thought of the two dresses she had debated about wearing for this moment: her long green cocktail dress or her shorter, ruffled red number. She couldn't wait to surprise Matthew with her unusual choice of wedding dress._

* * *

"What's the matter Mary?" Robert asked casually as he looked at his watch.

"Well," she answered matter-of-factly, "since you asked, Papa, I wish you would excuse me from this cocktail party." Mary smoothed the bun containing her long chestnut brown hair. Although she knew it was pinned up securely, she still had a feeling of dread that it would unravel any minute.

"Your mother and sisters are visiting your grandmother. If you did not want to attend tonight, you should have thought of that before you refused their invitation."

Mary rolled her eyes at her father's simple conclusion. It constantly frustrated her that her father had such a narrow point of view. She fidgeted in her long, pleated, emerald cocktail dress. At least it gave her some comfort that she could wear this new addition to her wardrobe tonight. Fashion had always been her copeing mechanism when her family did not understand her.

"My darling girl," her father adjusted the knot in his tie with mechanical efficiency, "remember, the mayor is coming."

The intercom buzzed to indicate the first guest had arrived.

"_Smile_," her father commanded her.

"Mr. Matthew Crawley," the doorman announced.

Mary watched her father's eyes positively glow as he moved away from her with a bounce in his step. The lift door chirped, and the awkward creature stepped into her parent's penthouse. She had met this man on several occasions and had yet to be impressed with him, even if her father was. Mary's eyes moved over his form again. He was a tall man, but he carried a few extra pounds on his frame - baby fat to match his naive disposition. His blond hair was always parted down the middle. He looked altogether very average to Mary. But her father called him a prodigy. Robert's speech had been peppered rather strongly lately with, "Matthew this" and "Matthew that." Mary was fed up with the nonsense.

She could never be impressed by a man who had no flare either in how he dressed or in how he spoke. To her, it seemed this man operated as if his mute button had been pressed.

"Matthew!" her father exclaimed with enthusiasm, reaching out to shake his guest's hand. "Welcome, my boy!"

Mary hated her father's familiarity with social acquaintances. It seemed very antiquated to her, his speech being constantly freckled with clichés and expressions that were relics of the distant past.

"I'm so very pleased to see you," Robert said, reluctantly releasing Matthew's hand. "Do you remember my daughter Mary?" He clapped Matthew on the back, effectively turning the younger man in her direction.

"Mary," he said with a boastful grin, "Matthew is here."

It should be obvious to anyone, even her father, that this man wasn't her type. Mary wanted to tell her father how amateur his matchmaking tactics were, but she held her tongue.

"Hello, Mr. Crawley," she said, her voice tinged with annoyance. She plastered on a phony smile.

"Hello, Mary," he responded politely. She noticed the way his timid eyes almost bulged at her revealing dress. The silk fabric had slits between her bosoms that exposed just a hint of skin. Even this conservatively prudish man appreciated it, unlike her family. He had won a small victory in her estimation... until he spoke.

"I was expecting the whole reception committee, but I see you must be the only family member in attendance tonight."

Mary held her jaw firmly clenched. He was impossible! What a thing to say. And yet her father smiled and laughed, clapping Matthew affectionately on the back.

"Yes, you are right my boy, just my eldest. The rest of the family is visiting my mother."

The catering waiters suddenly appeared with hors d'oeuvres. Matthew licked his lips, and Maryreleased a small sigh. It was going to be a long evening.

"So, Matthew," Robert said, "when can I get more stock picks? I gave your last suggestions to my broker, and was very pleased with the end result, my boy."

"Well," Matthew managed between bites, "I was offering the stock picks in exchange for pledges at the Leukemia research fundraiser. My girlfriend has had the disease, so I always try to do my part for the cause."

Robert beamed at the refusal, oddly enough, which surprised Mary, since her father was decidedly used to getting his own way.

"Well," Robert spoke self-confidently, "I will ask again when I have my checkbook!"

Mary watched with carefully contained amusement as Matthew seemed to have grown uneasy at this notion as he shifted on his feet. Expressing himself through the distribution of money was, after all, her father's favorite way of communicating. Any real emotions he felt had to be suppressed; he was a very efficient man. She did not understand what her father could possibly see in this strange, chubby young man. Mathew was nobody, just a lackluster number-cruncher obsessed with a subject she thought almost vulgar it was so boring.

"So..." Mary began as the waiter approached with crystal flutes of champagne. All three of them took a drink. She decided to tease their guest to pass the time. "Matthew..." she stepped close and lightly touched his forearm. She felt him flinch. "Heard any good maths jokes lately?"

"No," he answered, stepping away from her. "Sorry to disappoint you."

Something happened to Matthew's face that Mary hated to registrar. The twinkle was gone from his blue eyes. She felt a tiny inkling of remorse, but crushed it as ridiculous and irrelevant. Matthew didn't matter. He was far too trivial to make her feel anything. There was silence until her father waved his free hand frantically.

"Matthew! Tell Mary the one about the Frenchmen and speaking different languages. Mary will be amused by that. She has a great affinity for the French, their film, food, and fashion. My daughter is always pushing these views, despite the fact that they do not interest everyone."

Mary tried not to grimace as she took a large gulp of her drink.

"Easy there," her father said in a light, scolding tone that further irritated her. Her face burned with embarrassment.

There was a long pause as Matthew chewed on another hors d'oeuvre**.** He seemed to be taking his time to drag out the moment. Matthew took a sip of his drink, then cleared his throat. Finally, he spoke, but his voice was quieter than before.

"The writer Goethe once said, '_Mathematicians are like Frenchmen: whatever you say to them, they translate it into their own language, and forthwith it means something entirely different_.'"

Mary felt her cheeks continue to burn. She hated it when her father goaded her about her attachment to all things French, and using Matthew to bore her with maths was the last straw. The intercom buzzed again, and another guest was announced. _"Mr. John Shade."_

"Excuse me," Matthew said graciously. His manors were frustratingly proper, even though he was so socially awkward. Mary glared at their first guest as her father nodded.

Robert turned to greet his senior vice president who oversaw the vast Crawley Companies empire. Mary watched Matthew as he walked out onto the balcony holding his drink. She didn't know why she couldn't help staring at him because she was still monumentally irritated.

* * *

Matthew loitered around The National Portrait Gallery as he waited anxiously for a certain text message. He had come into the museum to kill time and, hopefully, steady his nerves. As he had walked nervously around Leicester Square, he had seen The Prince Charles Cinema's canopy sign advertising the screening of _Wild Strawberries_. Matthew was, therefore, sure this was the destination that Mary had described. At her father's cocktail party last night, she had not been able to remember the name of cinema, only the time of the screening she planned to attend.

For perhaps the first time, they had communicated without hostility, and a truce called. So, now he waited. Would Mary follow through with her invitation or withdraw it? Without any firm data, he couldn't make a prediction either way. Mary was uncharted territory. But then it happened; his phone vibrated in his pocket. Matthew seated himself on a bench in front of an oil painting of Shakespeare. He took a deep breath and looked up at the Bard as if for guidance. Matthew inspected his new text message. Sure enough, it was from Mary.

"_Prince Charles Cinema. The canopy today says 'sod the sunshine __come sit in the dark,' and I couldn't agree more."_

Matthew smiled at her message. The butterflies in his stomach seemed to settle just a tiny bit. Although there was nothing wrong with what he was doing, he still felt apprehensive. He had not told his girlfriend, Lavinia, about this Saturday rendezvous with another woman. But, then again, he rationalized there was nothing sinister about visiting the cinema with Mary. After all, she barely tolerated him. Mary's invitation was a fluke based solely on the fact that they, surprisingly, shared a passion for this particular Swedish film. Matthew glanced at the time on his mobile. It was twenty minutes to show time, and he was cursed with a sudden lack of articulation. He knew he should reply to the message but was afraid _anything_ he wrote would be judged negatively by the vivacious Mary. She had long ago evaluated him as unworthy of her attention. So, although he had sometimes enjoyed her company, he knew the feeling was not mutual.

But he had to confirm he would meet her without revealing just how much the prospect excited him. Suddenly, he had an idea. He would challenge her knowledge of the film. Matthew felt clever as he keyed in, _"I'll be the lighthearted young blonde waiting outside."_ He quickly hit send before he lost his nerve.

Almost instantly, his phone buzzed, and he smiled before he'd even read the message. He looked at Shakespeare again and felt he must be wearing a similar enigmatic smirk. Mary's reply read, _"I will be like a strawberry in my red dress."_ A sudden chill went through his entire body. Mary had understood him and made her own reference in reply to his. History was repeating itself from last night. They were in tune together; he had not imagined it. Matthew rubbed his sweaty palms on his shorts and put his phone back in the pocket of his polo shirt. _The hour has come,_ he thought flippantly as he bid Shakespeare adieu.

As Matthew approached the theatre, he could easily spot Mary. She stood out from the crowd. Mary was wearing a red dress, just as she had said, the cut hugging her body's curves so perfectly that he couldn't take his eyes off her. The scooped neckline highlighted the oversized sheer trim of the ruffles that delicately draped around her shoulders. She looked absolutely enchanting. Mary had the earpiece of her sunglasses in her mouth, and her long hair was pinned up in an elegant French twist. Matthew noticed the way other men ogled her and couldn't help but feel a certain kind of thrill at the thought that _he_ was the person she was waiting for. He almost keeled over when they made eye contact, Mary waving at him enthusiastically. Matthew had not anticipated such an animated reaction from her. But he also knew she enjoyed being the center of attention. He was simply an actor on the Mary Crawley Show, but he didn't mind. It was rather a fun charade to play. So he waved back with a wide grin on his face.

Once in the cinema, they purchased their tickets separately, but Mary agreed to let him buy the popcorn which she said they would share. This felt like an intimate gesture to him. Lavinia, always conscientious of germs, preferred to get separate popcorns. As he sat next to Mary, Matthew felt a rush of exhilaration travel through his body. This film meant so much to him, and he had never seen it on the big screen. He told himself this was the reason why he was so transparently happy.

Since they were early, there was no one else in the cinema. They were alone together in the dark.

"How did you come to love this film?" Mary asked him around a bite of the popcorn.

Matthew chewed as he thought about how to answer her question. The inquisition had begun. He wasn't sure how much of his life he should share with Mary. But he knew he had to offer her some explanation.

"I saw it when I was a kid," Matthew offered. He took another handful of popcorn from the bag on his lap. Though he chewed heartily, the mouthful was suddenly devoid of taste. But if he was chewing he couldn't talk, and he preferred it that way.

Mary's skeptical gaze lingered on him, her eyebrows completely raised. Matthew was familiar with that look of exasperation she often had on her face when they encountered each other. It was oddly comforting to retreat to their normal feelings. Pretending they could be friends was a little ridiculous after all.

"I first saw it during a film class at university, and I still didn't understand everything about it," Mary said. "And yet, you saw it as a kid and loved it?" Her voice had a hard edge to it. She was definitely challenging his statement. The superiority she often flaunted in front of him had returned. Enough was enough; he took a stand.

"Yes," he asserted with confidence. He could see from Mary's expression she still didn't believe him. It burned inside of him, that she could be so intoxicatingly beautiful and smart, yet so arrogant at the same time. Matthew didn't think, he just spoke, the words tumbling suddenly from his mouth.

"I was thirteen years old, and my father had just died," Matthew said harshly. "When I saw this film about a doctor reexamining his life, it spoke to me instantly. The old doctor has created a life of isolation for himself because he can't express his emotions. He is trapped, yet he ultimately finds peace with his life - he finds hope. That is what I love about this story." He turned his head away from Mary as he heard her gasp. Having completed his rant, his throat was now thoroughly constricted.

Matthew felt embarrassed about his outburst, knowing Mary probably thought _he_ was the arrogant one now. His insecurities returned with vengeance. Though he felt vaguely sick to his stomach, he took another handful of the popcorn and ate it because he didn't know what else to do. The deep-seated pain of his father's death returned. He couldn't believe he had just exposed this private grief to Mary. _Don't cry, you fool_, he cautioned himself with a stern reprimand. His mind spun in chaotic circles through the awkwardly silent moment.

"I'm sorry," Mary said quietly, breaking the tension. She lightly touched his bare arm for a second, raising goose pimples on his skin. It was as though Mary produced an electrical shock to his system. He could breathe again. There was a pause, and, then, she said his name - his first name. Mary had never called him that before, and they had known each other more than a year.

"Matthew," she spoke softly, "I shouldn't assume you are like everyone else I know...because you're not."

When he looked at Mary, he saw a menagerie of different emotions. Her face was a kaleidoscope; she never held the same expression for very long. Mary was always shifting and changing to hide or reveal her thoughts. Matthew envied her skill as he thought about her kind words. Perhaps he would have said something in response, but the theatre was suddenly bustling with other occupants. And it didn't feel right to speak, to reveal more, now that they weren't alone. So, he simply smiled at Mary.

As they watched the film together, Matthew found his attention was often distracted. Mary whispered lines of dialogue and gripped the arms of her seat in dramatic moments. Once, she even turned towards him and rested her head near his shoulder. He could smell her ginger perfume, a spicy assault of sweet Asian and Caribbean undertones. Matthew appreciated the consistency of the fact that she seemed to always wear that scent. It showed a strange kind of loyalty in the way she presented herself.

Matthew watched Mary as much as he watched the screen. Their popcorn was left untouched. Near the end of the film, Mary pointed at the screen and declared her love for the female protagonist.

"I want to be her," she whispered passionately.

Matthew was surprised by this declaration, as he had always seen the film through the eyes of the doctor. But now, he thought about the story from a different point of view - because of Mary. Her love of this same film was completely different from his own, yet equally as zealous. It meant a great deal to both of them. A very great deal.

"_If I have been feeling worried or sad during the day, I have a habit of recalling scenes from childhood to calm me. So it was this evening,"_

Matthew unconsciously lip-synced the words as they were spoken in the film. He was startled to look over and see Mary doing the same. They smiled at each other. As the film reached its conclusion, the audience clapped, and Matthew couldn't help but join in. Mary put her fingers in her mouth and whistled, at which he couldn't help but laugh. His guard was completely down by the time they walked out of the theatre into the late afternoon summer sun. Matthew still had a smile on his face. He had just had _fun_ with Mary Crawley. It seemed absurd, but it was true.

"So," Mary began, "Would you like to rendezvous with me again?" She didn't wait for an answer before continuing. "There is a French film retrospective here next week. And I really want to see _Breathless_ again."

They didn't need to be friends when they spent time together in the dark with foreign cinema as their basis for companionship. Matthew's smile grew as if it were Pinocchio's nose. Mary was the perfect theatre companion.

"I would be happy to see _Breathless _with you," he responded eagerly. "But," he continued, "then you have to see _The Red Balloon_ with me." He made the offer knowing it was a safe gamble; his selection was also classic French cinema.

"As you wish," Mary answered playfully. "And I'll even buy the popcorn next time." She put on her sunglasses. "I'll text you," she said as she walked away nonchalantly.

"_Au revoir_," Mary concluded.

Matthew didn't take his eyes off her until she had vanished around the corner. He shook his head and tried to unscramble his thoughts. Matthew was lost in the dialogue of the film: _"completely inexplicabl__e happiness in this."_

He pulled out his phone and quickly called Lavinia. Mary was gone, and the charade was over. He needed to return to reality...even though there was still a trail of ginger scent lingering in the air around him. His phone dialed, and he waited.

In the final scene of the film, there was a declaration of love, the last words being, _"I'll remember,"_ and the affirmation gave the protagonist closure. Matthew had always envied that moment of clarity. His call was connected to Lavinia's voicemail.

* * *

_"I, Mary, take you, Matthew, to be my husband."_

_She removed her engagement ring and handed it to Matthew. _

"_Just as this circle is without end, my love for you is eternal."_

_He took it reverently, but performed the sacred action of slipping it back onto her finger rather awkwardly as he was immobilized in his hospital bed. Now it had transitioned into her wedding ring._

_She took a deep breath, and, gesturing at her impromptu wedding dress, she added, "I'll remember." Mary said this with a glint in her eyes and a beaming smile on her face. She was ecstatic to see a joyful expression having bullied its way onto Matthew's wan face at these particular words. _

"_To cherish and respect you, to care and protect you, to comfort and encourage you, and stay with you, for all eternity." _

_The Vicar said a short prayer to bless their union. He looked between the couple and their family gathered together in the hospital room._

"_I now pronounce you husband and wife," he declared. "You may kiss the bride."_

_Mary stooped over Matthew, tenderly appreciating this transcendent moment._

"_I already think of you as my wife," her husband whispered, the words he had said on their vacation to Vienna the previous month. It was true; they had already felt joined, heart and soul, before this moment. And so, Mary took what was now rightfully hers._

* * *

_Thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you thought of this chapter. And as always you can find me on tumblr as wdedalus. _


	5. 128 sqrt(e980)

A/N: Please note the rating has been changed for this chapter! And I also want to express my hardy thanks for all the enthusiastic reactions to this story. In addition I must mention my astronomical appreciation to R. Grace for all her help as both my editor and sounding board.

* * *

On Circus Rd London NW8, Mary and Matthew were hosting a lavish housewarming party. Every detail had been delegated to a hired party planner, which was frustrating to Matthew, even if it thrilled Mary. So, he chalked it up to practice for the sophisticated wedding his bride was orchestrating. All evening he had watched as Mary's friends and his friends reluctantly mingled in their new home. He couldn't wait till the guests left, however, because then the true celebration would begin.

Matthew was definitely felling snubbed. Mary's friend Lucy had loudly declared, "Well, girls, remember _at least_ he is good looking." Laughter had filled the room until William caused an equal fuss by knocking over a bottle of wine, which splashed onto Lucy's dress. Matthew didn't have to wonder about the timing of William's "accident" when his friend winked at him.

And so the long night continued in a battle of the awkward versus the rude between their various guests. The next morning, they would be on a train to Vienna, a destination Mary had selected. Matthew was anxious for the vacation to commence. The world around him didn't make sense; it was only being with Mary that translated.

Once in Vienna, walking through the MQ, the Museumsquartier, everything suddenly seemed clear in Matthew's mind. They had spent the afternoon nestled together in a hammock. The _Flederhaus_ was a completely open five story building. It was a beautiful day in June, and the warm weather meant Mary was wearing a sleeveless, belted shirt-dress. The khaki plaid accented the natural highlights of her brown hair; it was a perfect compliment. He turned to Mary as he heard the rustic sound of bells chiming the passage of time.

"I already think of you as my wife," he found himself saying as he stared into her deep brown eyes.

They had been looking for a würstelstände, or sausage stand, so they could get a bite to eat. But, after Matthew's declaration, their appetites changed. Mary's talent for languages allowed her to articulate an appropriate response in German.

"_Ich liebe dich_," she breathed as she wrapped her arm around his shoulder and clung to the lapel of his shirt.

"Which means?" Matthew responded, wrapping his arms around her waist. His needy grasp was possessive as he held her close. Mary's kiss told him exactly what the phrase had meant. They stood in the loving embrace and continued to kiss while the crowds of people walked around them.

There was little space in their hotel suite that was left unscathed by their passion for one another. It became a game for them to try to make the ornate chandeliers rattle from the after-shocks of their love making. Sometimes they were so mashed up together, Matthew didn't know where she began and he ended. He was rather insatiable, and, therefore, lucky that his fiancée had a hunger that matched his own. The touch of her hands on the most intimate areas of his body could trigger the most cathartic sensations. Not that Matthew was keeping score, of course, but he had now made love with Mary in three different countries.

Matthew felt as though his body were in the war of electrical currents, almost as if he was the battle ground of an epic scientific experiment. The past was Edison with all his glory, but the future belonged to Tesla and his grand visions. As Matthew was illuminated, he was being electrified through the power supply of direct current transferring to the more stable and reliable alternating current. Lavinia had been his original power source; she was the starting point, so she represented Edison. However, it was Mary who was his engineer, his true inspiring genius, so she represented Telsa. Matthew did not mind one lick that he had been quite inebriated when he'd come up with this analogy. Mary didn't seem to mind either because she did lick him more than once, and in many surprising places.

In the shower with the hot steam fogging up the glass barrier, it was particularly hard for Matthew to catch his breath. Their euphoric shouts of ecstasy bounced and reverberated at deafening pitches. With his index finger, Matthew wrote in the condensation that clung to the glass shower door the figure 128√e980. Mary stared confusedly at the formula and pleaded with him to explain. If he continued to withhold this vital piece of information, she would have to take matters into her own hands, literally. Backed against the shower tiles, Mary had Matthew pinned as her hostage. The only problem with her plan was that her victim was very happy to remain her prey. She would have to find another tactic.

Mary took her revenge by quoting random segments of poetry to Matthew, only a part of the picture illustrated with her loving words. It adequately provoked him.

"_Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly."_

He could make assumptions, but he wanted her to finish. Mary smugly reminded him of his maths problem. But neither one of them would give in. It was an epic struggle of withheld words and numbers.

Matthew refilled their glasses of Radler, a beer brewed in Vienna that was mixed with lemonade; it was the perfect summer drink. The diluted Pilsner concoction was almost as addicting as sex, especially since it seemed to be a precursor to the action. It had led to their eventual loss of control on the only semi-private balcony. It was a balmy summer night and putting skin to skin was one solution that suited both of them. Vienna's night air smelled entrancingly like sachertorte, a rich chocolate cake. And the floral scents from the fauna on their balcony overpowered the less appealing scents of the well groomed horses that still marched the old world streets below them.

"Come, my wild stallion," Mary hummed in Matthew's ear and he rose to the challenge with a wicked grin. Her screams were quite operatic in the late night hours of summer because anything was now possible.

And this was how they had broken a reproduction rococo chair in their suite during one of their unrestrained love making sessions. Or at least Matthew had thought it was a reproduction until he saw the bill for replacing the piece of furniture. Mary had only laughed and handed her credit card to cover the amount without batting an eyelash at the astronomical dollar figures. She berated him slightly for not understanding.

"What did you expect, my darling? This hotel was once the former palace of Prince Württemberg!" Mary kissed his cheek playfully as they stood at the checkout desk in the lobby. "Besides," she cooed as she kissed him again, "I like what we did to that chair. Our version is better than the original. And it always will be."

The fall from the chair had left several prominent bruises on Matthew's shoulder and back, but the small injury had been well worth the pleasure. Especially since he had been able to cushion Mary's fall and insure she had a safe landing. She was his top priority, no matter the circumstances or how distracted he could become in the heat of their passion. He was rather proud of himself that he had been able to anticipate the moment's loss of gravity and act accordingly.

* * *

Matthew was pulled out of these memories of their recent escapades by another vehicle turning in front of their Jaguar with little warning. His driving was only a recently acquired skill from several months ago. William had recomposed the manual into a synopsis of information he could better comprehend. His foot lurked over the brake in case he needed to use it. However, the traffic situation around the train station was not as dramatic as he had feared.

"I hate driving," he whined as they came to a halt at a red light. He'd spent his life in London, walking, riding his bicycle, and traversing on the underground like any normal citizen. Owning a car was a ridiculous burden and expense.

"I could drive," Mary offered nonchalantly. She tipped her sunglasses down to look at him.

"Mary, that would be illegal," Matthew chastened, but then he recognized that perhaps he was over reacting. There was no reason for him to feel so anxious.

"Well, only you and I would know that, wouldn't we?" she responded mischievously. He looked at Mary and they shared a laugh. Matthew still couldn't believe that her father had given them this luxury car, since his daughter didn't even have a driver's license. Then again, maybe Robert wasn't aware that everybody needed a driver's license to drive a car. He, after all, had a chauffeur.

"What will you always remember about Vienna?" Mary asked him all of a sudden. Her voice was rich with sentiment.

"That is an easy question," Matthew leered cheekily.

Mary smiled. "We should practice, darling, for what we will say to other people. The sights and scenery," she teased.

"Okay," Matthew said, playing along. "My favorite thing we did, other than what we did together," he drawled with a sudden lust in his voice, "was the bat house – the hammocks."

"The _Flederhaus,_ darling," Mary corrected without delay.

"Yes, that," Matthew said with appreciation.

"Well chosen, that was completely unexpected, and those thrills are often the best," Mary said wistfully.

Matthew sensed Mary's penetrating gaze on him and realized he had been lost in his own thoughts again. He felt, rather than saw, her stare across the small space of the automobile. The mood between them had suddenly grown amorous.

"My strong, manly man," she purred and rested her hand on his thigh, rubbing softly, creeping higher and higher in a slow, tantalizing rhythm. "Not just another pretty face." She concluded her journey up his thigh by rubbing his groin.

"Mary," Matthew groaned. "Not while I'm driving," he pleaded. "The balcony was one thing, but I draw the line here."

"Spoil sport," Mary teased playfully as she removed her hand. She enjoyed the way Matthew bit his lip at the loss of contact, but he didn't make a further sound either of remorse or relief.

"Darling," Mary spoke, running her fingers over the expanse of his back, "tell me about these macho muscles you've got." She had never neglected to notice his physic, but never inquired about it. Matthew laughed and turned his head to look at her briefly.

"Rowing," Matthew revealed. "My father was a member of the London Rowing Club, and he often took me. Recently, I've taken up the sport again." He paused, his voice tender.

"The Thames is so beautiful early in the morning."

Mary felt her breath increase, and she giggled. "Darling," she spoke warmly, "I had no idea."

She thought it was a very stunning image of Matthew. Maybe some morning she could join him.

"I've never been very interested in sport. I can play cricket, but that doesn't mean I enjoy it." He shrugged his shoulders in a self-depreciating manor at the honesty. But then he realized something significant. Since he was a graduate of Cambridge and Mary was a graduate of Oxford, they often joked about how it was only natural they had been at odds with each other for so long. A yearly right of passage Mary would undoubtedly be familiar with was the rowing competition between the universities.

"Did you attend The Boat Race in 2007?" Matthew asked Mary, breaking the comfortable silence between them. He looked at her out of the corner of his eyes. With a small, inhibited smile, he watched as her expression glowed with admiration. She had made the connection he had been hinting at. And, he thought smugly, Mary was impressed.

"You were on the Cambridge team that year?" Mary asked affably.

Matthew nodded the affirmative.

"I saw you in 2007," Mary said as the shock hit her. "Oh my darling!" Her exclamation was loud and echoed throughout the small car. "Ich liebe dich," she sighed amorously. Matthew couldn't help but blush since he now knew what those words meant.

It was one of his proudest achievements to have participated in the race that day. He hadn't thought he would qualify as he was only an alternate, but fate had intervened. Matthew remembered the way the sun had felt, the sound of the water, and the unique feeling of being part of the team. He wondered if he could search through his memories from that day and remove the layers to pinpoint Mary in the crowd.

"Yes, I was on the rowing team. And Cambridge clobbered Oxford that year," he announced proudly.

"Well, my love," Mary said, "I won't tease you anymore in the car, but I plan to reward you. I will show you just how impressed I am when we get home."

"_Home_." Matthew breathed the word as if it was an aphoristic. "I love you in German," he said since he still couldn't trust he wouldn't butcher the pronunciation. Mary reached across the seat and placed her hand over his seatbelt where it covered his chest, just over the place where tattoo of Matthew's favorite maths symbol, the Lorenz system, had been inked. She now had a matching one over her right breast.

Mary was shaken from this reverie by the ringing of her mobile.

"Papa," she answered cheerfully.

Matthew resigned himself to the fact that they would be joining her family for dinner. For, as independent as Mary always claimed to be, she was completely intertwined with her relatives. Just as he had guessed, he heard his bride-to-be say, "Of course we'll meet you. That is my favorite restaurant, and we have so much to share about our trip! Thanks, Papa." There was a brief pause before, "Yes, Matthew is driving the Jaguar," she said before she thanked him again. As she ended the call, Mary felt she had another reason to be ecstatic. However, her euphoria quickly deflated when she looked at Matthew.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"Mary," he said with annoyance, "why did you automatically accept without consulting me?"

She only looked up at him in confusion.

"I would never expect you to come with me to my Mother's on such short notice," he continued earnestly, hoping she would see the connection he was trying to make.

"But that's because you know she hates me." Mary said the words before she could think about how they would sound to Matthew. She watched for a reaction, but he sat motionless, his only change in position the grip on the steering wheel. His knuckles were turning white.

"I'm sorry, darling," she added quickly. "Matthew," she said quietly, "do you want me to call and cancel? I will."

Mary wanted to reach out and touch him, but she was afraid that if she did he might flinch.

"Darling," she prompted him again, emphasizing her words, "_I really am sorry_."

"I'm not mad at you, Mary," he responded quietly. "But you don't understand." He paused and took a deep breath, actually relieved that he was driving and had to keep his eyes on the road.

"My mother doesn't hate you," he explained with a slight tremor. Matthew had known they'd eventually have to discuss this, but he had been dreading the moment. He had to expose his worst fear to Mary.

"I have to tell you something about me," he said quietly. His voice was strained and nervous. Mary worried about what kind of deep, dark secret Matthew could possibly have.

"I'm listening, darling," she said soothingly, hoping he could hear the love she was trying to instill into the cadence of her tone.

Matthew's blue eyes turned to gaze at her briefly. She saw the apprehension there and wished desperately she could kiss him with all the reckless abandon of their sojourns from their vacation.

"When I was a little boy..." he bit his lip struggling to communicate coherent thoughts, "a strange, lonely little boy who didn't talk very much..." Matthew focused on the street and the traffic; he didn't want to see Mary's reaction to his words. His palms were sweaty as he held the steering wheel. He took a deep breath and forced himself to continue. "I was diagnosed with a form of autism." The words fell from his mouth in a sudden rush as if they were the boogie man chasing him.

Mary felt tears in her eyes at his description of himself. A terrible sense of regret churned inside her when she remembered the way she had mocked and teased him early in their relationship. She had judged him for being inarticulate, for being plain and boring.

When he spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper. "My parents called it a misdiagnosis, but the label stuck with me. And then my father died and my mother was so fierce." Matthew stopped, the tone of his voice altering ever so slightly. "My mother _is_ so fierce."

And Mary unexpectedly saw Isobel in a new light - as a powerful protector. It made sense to her, all of a sudden.

"It's not personal, Mary," Matthew continued. "My mother doesn't hate you. Don't be upset with her because she is protective of me. She has to be that way. I made her that way."

Mary felt strange as she listened. If possible, she loved Matthew even more than she had five minutes ago, and she simply had to show him that now.

"Matthew," she said reverently, "my darling, my love, I think you should know that the reward I promised you at home, well... it just grew..." She paused dramatically. "What's the word I'm looking for? A delightful mathematical function…"

"Exponentially," Matthew offered, his voice, for the first time, having resumed its earlier strength and confidence. "Exponential growth occurs when the rate of the value of a mathematical function is proportional to the function's current value." His bright blue eyes cautiously glanced in her direction.

Mary purred seductively as he spoke the maths pillow talk she loved. She clicked her tongue in approval. "Good," she said playfully. "We understand each other then."

Matthew's grip on the steering wheel eased. Mary's keen observation could see that the heart that he always wore on his sleeve was now mending.

"_Mary_." He spoke her name with such devotion, she felt her emotions once again flood her. "You are the Lorenz Attractor," Matthew said delicately, "an undeniable formula for absolute beauty in the Lorenz System." He thought this observation very astute. "An attractor defines space similar to the wings of a butterfly. No matter how long the system evolves, it will remain forever."

"Matthew," Mary said with a purr. "Darling..." she touched herself just over the location of the new tattoo. Thankfully, Matthew was able to actually turn his full appreciation on her as they stopped at a red light. He licked his lips and snapped his teeth playfully in her direction.

"I think it only fair that you know I'm very _attracted_ to you right now, and I will be forever," Mary purred at him. Making a hasty decision, Matthew pulled the car over and parked.

Mary had a sudden idea for how to surprise him. She believed in bold actions. Therefore, she shimmied out of her panties; it was easy to do given the metallic striped pencil skirt she was wearing was loose fitting. This was exactly why a carefully chosen fashion statement was so important - it encouraged spontaneous actions. Matthew's jaw dropped as he watched her longingly. She held up the panties and twirled them like a lacy white flag. It was her signal that she conceded defeat first. Matthew's robust giggles were a hilariously sweet sound that filled the interior of the Jaguar. It was one of many noises she wished she could cork and bottle.

"Pablo Neruda," she revealed. "He wrote the poetry I've been teasing you with," Mary explained playfully. "And he also wrote I_ love you without knowing how, or when, or from where."_

Matthew had his proof. This was love. This was passion. This was Mary, his future wife.

"When we get home," he said, his voice breathy with anticipation, "I'll show you the other half of the maths problem," he promised. "I'll dismantle 128√e980 so you can see how it works." There was a wicked gleam in his eyes. "And, I promise, I won't stop until you get what's coming to you."

* * *

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this look back at M&M. As per my custom I will put pictures on tumblr that relate to this chapter. You can find me as wdedalus.


	6. Today, Tomorrow, and Forever

This chapter was a true labor of love and I must give credit where credit is due to my confidant and friend R. Grace for all her help and support. It's a fact that she rocks. (And her story Cura Te Ipsum was nominated for a Highclere Awards!)

Since the last chapter posted I've been made aware that this story was also nominated for Highclere Awards!

So, thank you for all the reviews, follows, favs and tumblr comments.

I'm speechless and stunned and every so happy in fact I think I'm on cloud nine.

Finally I feel compelled to reiterate R. Grace's wonderful insight into this story that each chapter has _foreshadowing that works backwards_.

And now on with the story…

* * *

Matthew sat on the bed in what was now his mother's guest room in a rumpled black suit, mourning for the past. He stared at the prisms on the windowsill. When this space had been his childhood bedroom, his father had put the prisms there, calling them a scientific nightlight. When he was scared, this consistency could always be trusted. His papa had explained that light alone was responsible for color, and this would never change. And just as he was taught as a little boy, Matthew stared at the prisms, craving to draw comfort from there presence. But this reassurance eluded him. Lavinia's funeral had stirred up far too many other demanding memories. Once, his father had saved her, but now they were both gone. It didn't, therefore, seem to matter that light and color were consistent when the circumstances of his life had been so altered.

It had only been six weeks since he had gotten the phone call from Reggie Swire. Time had accelerated from that moment on. Everything was out of his control. _He_ was out of control, for that matter. Because that very night, after he'd been told that Lavinia's cancer had returned and was now terminal, he had made the biggest mistake of his life. Matthew raked his hands through his disheveled hair, then leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

_He'd had sex with Mary Crawley. _

What made matters worse was that Mary condoned their behavior. She made no apologies or excuses. It was infuriating. And so Matthew had successfully avoided her for the most part since their unexpected tryst in his flat. He had dedicated himself to Lavinia, and had even given her a new Paddington bear, since, when they'd first met at age six, she'd had the toy with her in her hospital bed. He had brought Lavinia cherry blossoms and peppermint candy, and they'd reminisced about their shared childhood. Matthew had tried not to cry, but hadn't succeeded, when he had read to her from her favorite book, "Little Women." She had recast everyone in that book to fit her life, and, at first, it was a pleasant game they'd played as he read. That is, until she called herself Beth. He'd been so surprised at the painfully symbolic revelation that the book had tumbled from his hands, losing their page.

Lavinia had grown sicker everyday, but she had made her peace with fate. Soon, she had simply disappeared, with quiet courage. Only once since that fateful night had he seen Mary. She'd entered Lavinia's hospital room and seated herself on the chair closest to the door. From where he was sitting, all that separated them was Lavinia in her hospital bed. The symbolism of this arrangement had left Matthew sick to his stomach. He'd politely excused himself and kissed his girlfriend goodbye, ignoring Mary's pleading eyes. As he stood in the hospital corridor trying to regain his composure, he saw an approaching doctor, a doppelgänger of his decreased father, stethoscope swinging like a pendulum as he walked. Matthew ran into the men's lavatory unable to squelch the bile he felt rising in his throat. He dry heaved into the sink, fighting back the heavy emotions.

* * *

It wasn't until the funeral that Mary had finally trapped him. In the receiving line, as he'd stood next to Lavinia's father, Reggie, she had boldly kissed him on the check. Matthew had felt as though everyone in the church was judging him as Mary put her arms around him, without any invitation to do so. Tears stung in his eyes. She was not deterred when he did not return the embrace. The loving hug caused a delay in the receiving line, as she would not budge until she was ready. Mary had thoroughly humiliated him.

The rest of Lavinia's funeral had passed in a blur, except the vicar's poignant sermon, which had started with a biblical verse from Matthew 5:4: "Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted."

The fact that Reggie hadn't asked him to give a eulogy burned like an ulcer in his belly. He wondered if, somehow, Reggie knew about his involvement with Mary. Lavinia was his oldest friend, not just his girlfriend, and he had betrayed her. Matthew felt the pain of losing her with every step he took. He hadn't even been asked to be a pall bearer.

And so he'd sat beside his mother and felt worthless; he was good for nothing. His mother had been furious at Reggie for this conduct, but there was nothing he could say to contradict her point of view. The eulogy he had written but wouldn't be sharing was in his suit pocket along with a handkerchief. He'd brought the eulogy because it was the last part of Lavinia he had. Eventually, he offered the handkerchief to his mother, and she kissed him on the cheek, readily accepting it to dry her wet eyes. Long after the burial was finished and everyone else had gone, Matthew stayed. He ignored his mother's kind words and stubbornly lingered at Lavinia's grave.

"_I'm sorry,"_ he whispered to her headstone. And then he read the eulogy he had written, his voice barely even a whisper. Doubt lingered in his mind as he stood alone with his thoughts. Matthew knew he loved her. He would always miss her sweet conduct and unflinching loyalty. But since his night with Mary, he feared he had never actually been in love with his girlfriend. What he had done and what he couldn't undo where constant themes in his troubled mind. And the one person who might be able to help him was forbidden.

The destruction of his own moral fiber could never be appeased. He felt selfish and cruel. When he thought of the disappointment his father would feel in him Matthew was, for the first time in his life, actually grateful he was dead. His ever observant mother had attributed his mood swings to Lavinia's illness, and that had further agitated him. Matthew grieved not only for his own conscience, for his oldest friend, but also for his mother's false perception of him. He was a liar, a coward, and the kind of man that would cheat on his dying girlfriend.

"Matthew." He heard his name suddenly, having been completely lost in his own thoughts. His mother approached and hugged him where he sat on the bed. She kissed him fondly on the top of his head. It took monumental effort, but he did not breakdown, he couldn't. Tonight he just wanted his mother to still believe she had raised a good son. The bubble would burst eventually, the great lie would be exposed. But, for now, he put his arms around his mother's waist.

"There is nothing I can say," his mother said quietly. "Except to repeat what your father used to tell me when I was in despair." And there was a silence between them. "Before we had you, my sweet boy," she said affectionately before pausing to her throat, "_a__t any given moment, you have the power to say, this is not how the story is going to end_."

After a minute, she released him, patting his head again as she cleared her throat. The emotion was thick in his mother's voice.

"I just wanted to check on you. Now that it is over…" her voice paused. "Now, we go forward, Matthew. That is the only direction." He looked into his mother's eyes and saw the tears brimming. After another pause, she smiled at him and turned to walk out of the room. Without thinking, Matthew called after her suddenly.

"Mother," he said softly, then, just as she had taught him when he was a child brimming to speak but frustrated by his lack of vocabulary, he used sign language to communicate. He signed, _I love you_, to her.

His mother seemed to choke on her emotions somewhere between a cry and a laugh before she signed back, _so much__,_ in response. For a brief moment, he felt better. His mother closed the door, and,once again, he was left alone. And his thoughts returned to Mary. He remembered their earlier conversation when she'd found him standing at Lavinia's grave.

"_Matthew, if there is anything I can do, please let me know. I did grow to love her as if she was one of my own little sisters. Lavinia was…"_

"_Thank you Mary," he cut in abruptly. "But you've done enough already. And I would prefer it if you stopped pretending that you were actually a part of her life."_

Matthew remembered looking at her to see how she had taken his harsh words and was astonished that they didn't seem to have tarnished her determination. It was insufferable how much he admired Mary. And, furthermore, he hated how beautiful she was dressed in black, her hair pinned up perfectly in place and her demeanor undeterred. The brisk autumn breeze seemed to blow around her rather than on her, as if she were the true force to be reckoned with. He looked away before he was caught up in anymore of these heavy thoughts.

"_I know you__'re__upset, Matthew.__ I understand. You__re__ upset with yourself and me and even Lavinia for __dying, but__ none of that is actually your fault…"_

She had only stopped talking in her calm, rational voice when he'd started laughing at her words.

"_You're joking," he interjected bitterly. It was absurd that Mary could be so __naïve, offering__ him sympathy card platitudes. _

"_It is what it __is, Matthew__; you don't have to make this __so__ black and white! We had sex because we love each other! How much clearer does it have to be to get through that thick skull of yours?"_

"_I think it is black and white," he said as the cold breeze further numbed all of his feelings. "Mary," he __breathed__ her name __in__ a __low__ hiss__,__ "__y__ou have nothing to lose. But, I cheated on my dying girlfriend! On my best friend! On the person I love the most in the world. You and I don't love each other__.__" __H__e stopped his rant only so long that he could bend down to adjust the bouquets of flowers on Lavinia's grave. _

"_I don't know what happened – but …"_

"_No," Mary interrupted fiercely. Her voice was like granite, strong and polished. She would not budge from her point of view. Mary wanted to brave the storm at any __cost, it__ seemed. He stood up but didn't turn to face her. _

"_You do __know, Matthew.__ You were an active __participant, after__ all. Nothing will change that fact."_

_She stepped closer to him and took his left hand before she __bringing __it to her lips and tenderly kissed it several times in quick succession._

"_I love you__." She spoke__ the words with such determination. "That is all that matters now."_

_ A tiny part of him relished her actions. And yet she had shown him open contempt for so long. Her mean streak had teased him and called him Mr. Craw-lee. His mind was only too happy to remind him of the choicest remarks she had made. Her words had never escaped and still lived in his memory perpetually refreshed since the day they had been spoken. Matthew looked at their joined hands. __They'd known each other for__ over a year before she would use his first __name, after __all. Mary could not replace Lavinia. He couldn't believe the last few months and their frail friendship could actually mean anything significant. Matthew couldn't trust her. So, he pulled his hand free and was surprised at how easy it was. She didn't fight him._

"_You don't love me," he said bitterly. "If we have any connection it is that together we betrayed Lavinia. __Goodbye, Mary__." __H__e started to walk away. "This is the end."_

"_Matthew!" she called his name with rage. "You're scared and a liar!" Her words were loud and angry and drenched with emotion. Matthew__, though, __would not feel sorry for her; he didn't turn around. He put one foot ahead of the other._

"_But, I do love you," Mary had started crying, he could hear it in her voice as she forced the words out. The loud sobs echoed in the wind__.__ "More than you could possibly understand!"_

The words replayed in his head. They seemed to be burned into his brain. Matthew bit his lip and felt the tears once again threatening to pour out of him. They might have if there hadn't been a knock on his door. His mother peeked into the room again suddenly.

"Sorry, my dearest, I forgot I was going to give you this package. It was just delivered."

His mother set it on the bed next to him and exited quickly out of the room with a sympathetic gaze. Matthew looked down at the package from his stupor. The tears started flowing down his face, unable to be held back any longer. It was from Mary. Her neat cursive handwriting was a siren call to him. He was impressed that she had thought to have it delivered to his mother's rather than to his flat. It was a bold choice. But then again Mary always knew how to find him. She knew just how to reach him, how to comfort him. She didn't give up. Matthew knew he didn't deserve her in his life, which was why he had to push her away. He had betrayed Lavinia, and he had used Mary to do it. She deserved a far better man in her life than he could ever be. He was neither a good man nor a brave one.

And yet, as he cried, he ripped open the envelope with one swift movement. His hands pulled out a dvd, a framed picture, and a sealed envelope. The dvd was the movie they had watched the night they'd made love. Matthew set it aside. Next, he touched the polished silver frame, knowing it must have been extremely expensive. It was upside down, and he hesitated, not knowing if he should look at the picture.

Losing his balance from his perch on the bed, Matthew slid onto the floor with an awkward thud. He thought about their night together. The comfort of her presence and how she had awakened him from a nightmare by kissing him. The gentle touch had lifted his spirits, then fired his libido. Matthew closed his eyes and continued to cry, thinking about the passion of their love-making. Nothing had ever felt better than their short union together. It was ridiculous, but true. He loved Mary, but that didn't make what they had done right. If he hadn't have been drunk none of it would have ever happened. Mary had taken advantage of the situation. Wiping his eyes and sniffling, Matthew found the courage to look at the picture in the frame she had sent. It would be their last connection, after all. As he turned the frame, the laughter that he felt bubbling out of himself could only be described as manic.

The picture he held was a candid shot he'd never seen before, although he remembered when the photo was taken. He recognized the location as the pub where they had celebrated his last birthday, only months ago. In the picture, Matthew sat between Mary and Lavinia with his arms around both of them. As he rubbed his eyes, trying to focus on the picture, he noticed something he didn't remember from that evening. But the picture said a thousand words. Lavinia's gaze was fixed away from him, more towards his friend, William. They were laughing in unison together. But Mary's gaze was fixed exactly on him, and his was on her. It was undeniable proof of their shared love.

"_But I do love you_," he heard the words echo in his head. _"More than you could possibly understand!"_ And yet his love of maths once again reminded him two wrongs don't make a right. Matthew clutched the photo against his chest, unable to gaze upon such loving mutual symmetry.

* * *

Days, weeks, and then a complete month went by, and Matthew had not had one phone call, letter, email, or text message from Mary. He thought about her constantly though. Matthew had even tried to explain the situation to William, although he had become too tongue tied. Still, his friend had given him good advice, which often cycled through his head.

As Christmas was approaching, Matthew sat down to compose cards to everyone he wanted to communicate with, near and far. He was sending one to Robert Crawley, so he couldn't help but add Mary's name to his list. It was only polite, after all, and it would neither hurt nor heal their relationship. Matthew stared at the blank card he had addressed to Mary. He didn't know what to say to her. And so he felt brave enough to finally read her letter.

Matthew sat at his kitchen table with a warm mug of peppermint tea. Taking a long, deep breath, he pulled the stationary from the envelope. He stared to read the elegant calligraphy of her neat hand writing.

"_Dear Matthew, _

_I love you. _

He stopped reading and blinked back tears. His eyes stared at those three little words in a relentless circle before he finally forced himself to continue.

_We took a chance once already when and met to see the __movie "Wild __Strawberries."_

_And we quoted all the same lines of dialogue. Do you think about that as often as I do? _

_Well, enough nostalgia__, now__ the real reason for my letter. It is time for us to take another leap of faith. I wanted to tell you about the last time I saw Lavinia. I sat with her in the hospital __and held __her right hand. For some __reason, this__ struck me because I remember holding your left hand during our night together. And then I thought about how I am in the __middle, or__ you are in the __middle, or__ Lavinia is in the middle of our collective mess. I didn't share any of these thoughts with __her, but__ she smiled at our joined hands all the same. She was very weak, but then the real surprise came__: s__he asked if I would hear her confession. And she made me promise that I would__, one day,__ tell you, for her wish involves you, Matthew. Lavinia said she had never known passion in life – in love __-__ but that she wished you would find such happiness._

_I know this is hard to hear (especially from me)__,__ but I must honor her last request. I was her friend too. She told me she understood now that even though she loved you more than anyone else she had ever met, she was not in love with you, and you were not in love with her. So, I told her my confession, that I love you. As I sat with __Lavinia, I__ told her that I could only hope that __maybe, someday__ in the __future, you__ might feel the same way I do. She smiled and offered to help me. _

_And this__ is the plan we came up with. _

_As movie logic dictates __(see__ enclosed dvd – "Sleepless in Seattle"__)_

_I will be on the observation deck of The Empire State Building in New York City at sunset on February 14__th__. I will wait for you._

_With all my love, today, __tomorrow, and__ forever,_

_Mary_

Matthew could not stop trembling as he read Mary's letter again and again. His tears had stopped, giving way to a hopeful smile.

_And this__ is the plan we came up with_.

He thought of this sentence and of the two women in his life, the wonderfully sweet Lavinia and the beautifully passionate Mary, working together because they shared a love for him. It was exciting and romantic. To meet in New York City was a grand gesture. And Lavinia, his dear sweet friend, had wanted him to fall in love. That was true bravery on her part. He briefly closed his eyes to send his silent thanks to her as he took a moment to remember his friend.

Matthew swallowed his tea and the lump in his throat with a resonating thud. For the first time, he felt lucky because there was nothing he wanted in the world more than Mary. Just the thought of her beauty aroused his libido, and now this sensation felt natural. The erotic thoughts were a comforting balm rather than a dreaded nightmare. Matthew licked his lips as he remembered all that they had shared that night. Mary had proved she loved him with these actions; it was time he returned her sentiments. An idea came to him, and he smiled. He would be bold too and surprise her. Matthew thought of Mary's usage of a line from their favorite movie, _Wild Strawberries_. It was a mutual sentiment. He would love Mary, _today, __tomorrow, and __forever._ He stood up from the table, ready to make some travel arrangements, his momentum building as he was now ready to take another leap of faith.

* * *

Thanks for reading!

"Wherewith in a great musing he was brought, Friend (quoth the good man) a penny for your thought."

_A Dialogue Containing the Number in Effect of all the Proverbs in the English Tongue_, by John Heywood, 1546.


	7. Smell and Memory

Mary held her mobile in her hands, staring at her personal fashion blog. The last post she had written had been gushing about her wedding dress sketches. Mary had wanted to design her own wedding dress, and she had posted seventeen drawings. This euphoria now appalled her because she had not mentioned her groom even once. Mary had not updated the blog since then, and, though she wanted to share the details of her hospital wedding, the words wouldn't come. She stared at the photo Sybil had taken as she and Matthew had kissed. It was a lovely wedding portrait. Mary made the decision to let the picture speak for her, and she uploaded it to her blog without even adding a caption. Her fingers traced the image evocatively, producing fierce waves of love that almost overwhelmed her. She dropped her blinking phone telling her she had missed calls and text messages back into her purse and looked instead at Matthew. She was so hypnotized by her own maudlin thoughts she did not hear the door open or the footsteps approaching her.

"Mary," a strong voice called her. She turned her head and saw Isobel. Mary had spent her wedding night with her husband although it was nothing like she could have ever imagined it would be. Her new mother-in-law joined her, and they sat quietly along side Matthew's hospital bed.

"How are you?" Isobel asked. This simple, heartfelt question made Mary start crying. Isobel took her instantly into her arms for a very affectionate hug. Mary soaked up the offered embrace. It had been a very long night.

"I brought you madeleines for breakfast," Isobel said as she fondly rubbed Mary's back.

"Thank you," Mary said, reluctantly pulling away in order to wipe her eyes. She readily accepted Isobel's offered tissue. "But I couldn't eat anything." Mary tried to brush her hair behind her ears as her fingers played with the long strands nervously.

"I asked your father," Isobel said, continuing with her train of thought undeterred by the hesitation, "about your favorite biscuit. Trust me, Mary," she said soothingly as she opened the pastry box and displayed the treats. "Just smell them."

Mary wanted to continue her protest, but the earnest look on Isobel's face was not something she could fight at the moment. She leaned forward and lightly sniffed the air close to the box. The scent was intrinsically comforting, much to her astonishment. It gave her an unexpected sense of equilibrium.

"Our sense of smell is strongly connected to memory, Mary," Isobel explained, her eyes fixed on her sleeping son. An inkling of a tender smile was on her face. "My husband..." Isobel paused. When she spoke again her phrasing had changed, "Matthew's father," she said emotionally, "he believed in the healing power of aromatherapy. The mind–body connection, he would say." Isobel's voice was gentle, so unlike its usual veracity. "I admired him as a doctor, long before I would admit that I had fallen in love with him. He was not only significantly older than me, but he was also my supervisor. And yet, I took the risk and reveled my true feelings," Isobel's potent voice wavered, and she paused.

"Mary," she continued, turning her attention briefly away from her precious son. "That is what you have to do with a Crawley man," Isobel concluded affectionately.

More tears fell down Mary's face at Isobel's confession. Everything she said made sense. Mary wiped her eyes again and thought about Isobel's profound kindness in explaining her personal history. She watched as Isobel continued to stare at Matthew, her gaze so monumentally loving.

Mary had been staring at Matthew all night, except for the short period of time she had succumbed to her own exhaustion. It was as though her eyes were unable to focus on anything else in the room except for him. And so her gaze automatically returned to his sleeping face. Mary sucked in a deep breath; she had to share what was on her mind. The paper hankie tore as it was twisted in her nervous hands. The little white square briefly made her think of the wedding dress sketches she now hated on her blog. Tears pricked Mary's eyes yet again when she thought back to yesterday -their wedding day. She had seen her supremely stoic father cry for the first time in her life. He'd held her hand tenderly as it was offered towards Matthew with his complete approval. And yet Isobel's acceptance ironically made her only feel further doubts that she was good enough for Matthew; Swire's reveal of her character defects still haunted her. What had been proven by recent events was that she had forced Matthew into sex, and now into marriage.

"I feel so worthless," she said as she set the tissue aside on the nearby table.

Isobel pulled out a tissue for herself and dapped at her eyes. Mary fidgeted with her hair.

"I had to do something," Mary said emphatically. "It was not the great sacrifice everybody thinks it was for me." She looked down at the red dress she was still wearing; it had served as her wedding gown. "I needed to marry him," she said quietly, her voice quivering. But then Mary realized even this rationale was selfish. She fought back more tears. Looking at her mother-in-law's strong countenance and support, she realized the silence in the hospital room was completely innocuous. Mary tried to rally her spirits accordingly.

Isobel's gaze was fixed on Matthew, who twitched. There was hardly any movement that he could make after all; with the fractures in his lower spinal vertebra he was immobilized. But Mary felt panic stricken to see him so pale and distressed even in sleep.

"What can we do for Matthew?" Mary asked, her voice shaking.

"Peppermint," Isobel said without delay. "It was his father's favorite for aromatherapy," Isobel's voice resumed its dignified tone, sounding more like the authoritative nurse she was.

Mary watched as Isobel produced a small, glass bottle from her pocket and unscrewed its tiny lid. She leaned forward and held it under Matthew's nose as he continued to subtly tremble. Mary watched his mother then gently pick up his left wrist to dab it with the peppermint essential oil. She soothingly rubbed small drops into his knuckles, palm, and fingers. Mary watched as, magically, his head lost its slight, shaky rhythm, and he stilled. He sniffed the air.

"Matthew," Isobel cooed soothingly as his breathing patterns changed and his eyelashes fluttered. He was trapped in a nightmare and needed to be freed, though reality would provide little sanctuary.

"Mother?" he said faintly, his voice low and raw. It was a question, for Mary could hear the uncertainty in his tone. And it was not a rhetorical question; he actually was not sure.

"Yes," Isobel responded with absolute conviction. "Good morning." She was no longer a nurse when she spoke, she was a mother. Mary was in awe.

"Will you..." he paused, his eyes only opened to slits. He yawned wearily. "Can you tell William something for me? I want too make sure he knows…" Matthew's tongue lethargically came out to lick his lips, and perhaps he was going to speak again, but he stopped. Mary watched in horror as Matthew was suddenly crying. The drugs in his system created a fierce barrier he had to break through each time he awoke.

"My dear boy," Isobel spoke sensitively. Her words fierce and possessive, she took his peppermint dabbed hand and squeezed it lovingly between her own, her fingers trailing over an old scar on his left arm. Mary watched the skillful way Isobel comforted Matthew, knowing the significance of that childhood injury, which had occurred just prior to his father's death.

"What do you smell?" Isobel asked. Matthew's eyes did not need to be open for this experiment, and the small, now damp, slits gave up and closed. Mary watched as he took a deep breath of air however.

"I smell Papa," Matthew croaked, his voice strained as he yawned, and yet, his tears stopped. Dr. Crawley's legacy was very clear and still very much alive.

Mary met Isobel's eyes, and her mother-in-law nodded in encouragement. They could now communicate without speaking. Quickly, Mary reached for her purse on the floor and retrieved her favorite perfume. She liberally doused herself in the ginger scent and leaned towards Matthew, but he didn't automatically react. Isobel smiled, and Mary grew bolder. She lightly kissed him, her lips brushing over his.

"_Husband_," she breathed, almost emotionally choking on the new title.

"_Wife_," Matthew's voice was numbed, but the reply came almost instantly.

"_Darling_," she said devotedly. Still perched over him, she kissed him again, just a feather-light caress. Mary had the last word as he had drifted back towards slumber. She wondered what he would dream about while he slept. After a moment, her mother-in-law picked up the bakery box again and offered her a biscuit. This time, Mary took one.

"Do you know Proust, Mary?" Isobel asked after finishing her biscuit and brushing crumbs from her lap. She took another one without delay. They sat silently together, nibbling their treats. Mary nodded at Isobel's question. She was surprised when she too wanted another biscuit.

"Reggie," Isobel began quietly, "Matthew's father," she added for clarification, "used to quote Proust in reference to smell and involuntary memory. Proust wrote that, 'taste and smell alone are more fragile but enduring,' Isobel said paraphrasing the famous philosopher, 'and that, like souls, they wait and hope amid the ruins of everything else.'"

Mary nodded again while watching her mother-in-law stare down at Matthew.

"We will help him get through this Mary," Isobel said with determination as their eyes met. "Matthew will make a complete recovery."

As Mary bit into the second madeline, she let herself close her eyes. Just for a second, she was on the French Rivera and her grandmother, Violet, was handing her the biscuit for the first time, promising her she would like it. When she opened her eyes, Mary realized that, though her memories could go back, her love would only go forward. Dr. Crawley was a very wise man to use aromatherapy and quote Proust. Isobel smiled at her again, a tender, nostalgic, hopeful smile, as she held out another time traveling cookie. Mary couldn't wait to tell Matthew about this experience when he awoke.

"_Husband," she said,__ almost choking on the new title. _

"_Wife," came Matthew's almost instant reply, his voice weak but lucid all the same. _

"_Darling," she said devotedly. Still perched over him, she kissed him again, just a feather-light caress. Mary had the last word as he drifted back towards slumber. She wondered what he would dream about while he slept._

* * *

Matthew dreamed a memory. A time when William's advice had made a difference regarding his feelings for Mary. It was a surreal reconstruction of how he had wandered through the London Zoo, waiting for his friend. His guilty conscience had made him feel he was stuck in limbo. He deserved to be unhappy. What further complicated matters was how Matthew couldn't stop thinking about Mary. She had initiated intimacy between them knowing he was drunk, exhausted, and lost in the shock of learning Lavinia's cancer was terminal. Matthew could not blame her for what had happened between them; what he couldn't understand was why Mary showed no remorse. That was something he couldn't forgive.

And yet, the fact remained that Mary was the most amazing woman he had ever met. They shared the exact same taste in old and obscure movies. She made him feel alive. Matthew had relished being with Mary in the darkness of a cinema. Everything was different within those walls when they were alone together. Matthew thought of a line of dialogue from their favorite movie, _Wild Strawberries: "There is neither right nor wrong. We act according to our needs."_

He understood that line now more than ever, because he needed Mary. And yet, Matthew also couldn't accept anything other than feelings of regret and guilt. Because a man should not cheat on his terminally ill girlfriend. So, even if he needed Mary, even if she loved him and he loved her, it was wrong.

Matthew found a bench in the Snowdon Aviary and texted William to meet him at this location. He tried to redirect his attention away from his mired thoughts and started watching a baby egret. The bird was mostly silent as it nestled alone high above him. Suddenly, he bit his lip as this sighting triggered a memory from his childhood.

_Matthew urgently took his father's hand and tugged him to follow. Once he had his father with him outside in their backyard, he pointed to a solitary bird that was perched above them on a near-by power line. He remembered the vivid way the sky and clouds framed around the blue jay, so many shades of the same color. His calm father diagnosed the situation. Matthew felt relief, because he seemed to understand. He had known he would. His papa always fixed everything._

"_It's okay," his father said, as his pepper grey hair blew in the wind. "You don't have to worry about the bird, because its body is not a good conductor of electricity," his father explained. _

_Matthew did not look convinced, his eyes pleading for immediate action._

"_Come here," his father beckoned. He sat on the stairs that connected the house to the backyard and he encouraged Matthew to sit between his legs__, tousling his hair affectionately._

"_Matthew," he began with equanimity, "electricity, flows through power lines using the least amount of resistance possible. The body of a small bird is not a good conductor of electricity. Therefore, the electricity essentially ignores its presence and continues to travel to its destination."_

"_So, it's almost like they are protected by magic?" Matthew asked leaning back against his father, whose arms went around him. His papa nodded, accepting this proposed conclusion with a chuckle. Matthew turned his gaze from the bird to look up into his father's kind eyes and wide smile. _

The egret Matthew was watching was suddenly approached by a larger bird that nuzzled the smaller creature. He bit his lip, and he was once again lost in thought. After another moment, Matthew reached into his briefcase and retrieved a book he had been reading recently, opening it to the bookmarked page.

_Asperger's Syndrome is an autism spectrum disorder._

_People with Asperger's can function normally, although often their attempts at communication are perceived by others as socially awkward or "active but odd"._

_Asperger's is associated with high levels of alexithymia, which is a difficulty in identifying and describing one's emotions. _

When he was a little boy, he had been diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome. Since Lavinia's death, Matthew he felt this past knowledge come back to haunt him. He took a deep breath of the winter air. What if he was more than simply quiet and shy? What if his parents' had been wrong not to accept this diagnosis? This old fear was brought forward by Mary's diagnosis; she told him he was afraid. But he just knew it was far too much to expect that Mary would really want to be with him, especially when he couldn't express his emotions adequately. If he had Asperger's syndrome, it would explain why he was so deficient. Matthew looked at the unopened letter from Mary; he wasn't brave enough to read it. It currently served as his bookmark in the medical textbook he was holding. A sudden shiver overtook him as he stared at Mary's letter. Her handwriting was beautiful and elegant. She was perfect, and he was broken. He didn't deserve her.

"Hello!" Matthew heard the excited voice of his friend William as he approached. He suddenly realized he was still holding the medical book on autism, and he tried to hide it. Matthew returned the greeting while stuffing the large book into his briefcase. He also returned his mobile phone to its correct pocket and bused himself with zipping the compartments.

"I'm sorry if I kept you waiting." William said, sitting next to him on the bench. His voice was its usual boisterous and light-hearted self. Without delay, William started prattling on about his girlfriend, Daisy.

"I keep having these silly arguments with her," William said. He ran his hands through his hair nervously. William was the jitteriest person Matthew had ever met. He never sat still. But, although his body language was rambunctious, his candid demeanor could always distill a situation down to the bottom line.

"Anything I can do to help?" Matthew offered quietly.

"Well, not with Daisy," he replied, "But on another topic, I do have this crazy boss," William elbowed him goofily. "Very important business men such as Robert Crawley - he called _again_ by the way - intensely dislike having to settle for talking to me."

Matthew couldn't help it; he smiled. "Duly noted," he said. "Sounds rough. I don't envy you."

"Whoa there," William said dramatically. "Please don't start the pity party yet! My boss is actually a great guy. In fact, he got tickets to my favorite band next week, with VIP passes."

"He still sounds like a monster to me!" Matthew said, enjoying the charade with William. The concert was something they were both looking forward to immensely. The Icelandic band Sigur Ros was playing in London on their latest tour. Next tour, they would go to Iceland for a concert. That was their ambitious plan.

"I'm glad you invited me to the zoo today. Good place to clear my head. I can't stop thinking about Daisy," William mused as his legs bounced, practically trotting in place.

"I understand that," Matthew said. In contrast, he was sitting still. "When there is always somebody on the foreground of your mind."

"Oh," William said, "I'm sorry. You must really be missing Lavinia."

"I do miss her," Matthew said. He leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. "But..." he hesitated. Matthew wanted to tell William about the situation with Mary but he didn't know how. "She isn't the person always on my mind," Matthew blurted the words out.

"Boss?" William asked without pretension. His legs stopped bouncing as he grew serious. "Are you okay? I've been worried about you for a while." There was a moment of silence between them, but William could never be quiet for very long. When he spoke again, his legs resumed bouncing.

"I saw that book you put in your bag, and I've seen other similar volumes in your flat," William said. "Maybe it does no good to tell you to stop worrying, but I'll try anyway." He drummed his fingers on the armrest of their bench. "Boss," he continued, looking directly at Matthew, "everybody is weird, okay? You're no different in that regard. I know I drink way too much caffeine; and yet look at me? Does it stop me? No, it doesn't. To be normal is to have odd quirks."

Matthew sheepishly sighed and bit his lip between his teeth. Maybe he was making everything far too complicated. Perhaps the anxiety would relent if he explained his secret.

"I can't stop thinking about Mary," Matthew ventured quietly. "I… we… umm... She said…" he stopped, the words faltering, and he nervously chuckled at how tongue-tied he was.

"Even when its true love it's not always easy," William said calmly. "I love Daisy, but sometimes we fight. But that is the nature of relationships, I suppose. Because when someone loves you, they accept you, including all the little strange quirks." William stared in his direction, and Matthew couldn't help but return the eye contact.

"Trust me," William said, "there is always something to look forward too, the next step."

"But," Matthew pleaded. "_It's Ma-r-y_," he stressed since William seemed to have ignored his revelation.

"I've seen the two of you together, so I'm really not surprised," William said nonchalantly, his whole face a grin. "I'm sorry, was I supposed to be?"

Matthew rubbed his hands together in exasperation. He closed his eyes for a moment and saw Mary in his mind's eye. There was no escape from her haunting beauty, no reprieve from the aching desire he had for her presence.

"One thing at a time, boss." William sat, bumping into him in a friendly manor. "Just deal with one thing at a time. That is my advice."

"Now," William spoke suddenly as he stood up, "let's go see the primates. As men, I am sure we will be able to relate to them," he joked. "I'll even buy you a pint afterwards so I can complain about my fight with Daisy."

Matthew smiled, accepting the change in both their positions and conversation. It was one of the reasons he so revered William's company, it being equivalent to bright warm sunshine on a cold winter day. Matthew felt his mood thaw as he considered everything William had just said. It was time to move on.

"She still won't marry you?" Matthew asked as he stood and slung the briefcase over his shoulder. William beckoned for him to hurry up.

"Daisy says it's too early in our relationship since we just moved in together. Maybe I can convince her by next summer."

"Well that's a start," Matthew said. "You've got to start somewhere."

William laughed and threw his arm around Matthew's shoulder as they walked. Maybe William was right. Perhaps there was hope, Matthew thought. Perhaps he could someday reunite with Mary.

* * *

But then Matthew awoke in his hospital room which was warm and bright with summer sunshine. Mary's grasp on his left hand was strong and firm and her lips danced over his. He thought of the first time they made love, the way she had loomed over him. It was a beautiful memory caught in a freeze frame he could replay over and over again. As he saw the sunshine, he remembered his dream.

"William?" Matthew gasped. And he watched his wife sadly shake her head. He bit his lip and nodded in silent understanding as he tried to acclimate himself to the painful reality. But then a new thought formed in his mind when he thought of his friend. _Wife. Mary_. Matthew thought of William's advice. He couldn't find anything to say as his eyes watered. One step at a time, he repeated to himself. It was William's legacy. Perhaps he should tell Mary about being with William at the zoo. Matthew stared at the sunshine as he formed his thoughts. His friend deserved credit for paving the first step towards their reconciliation, after all.

* * *

Authors Note: There are estimated to be 6,800 languages in the world and I would say _Thank you_ in each and every one of them to my muse R. Grace and to everyone that has been following, reading, reviewing and commenting on this story.

I hope this new chapter lived up to the expectations as this saga continues to unfold or fold depending on the nonlinear progress! Thanks for reading!

Check tumblr (wdedalus) for links relating to this new chapter.


	8. Butterfly Effect

Thanks 1 × 10⁶ (a million) for all the support and reviews! And a googolplex of thanks to R. Grace.

* * *

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know." -John Keats

* * *

Mary mischievously reached for the box of Jelly Babies, but Matthew brushed her hand away from the candy. Matthew counted the pieces, and bemoaned the ratio of the total to his favorite flavor. Mary was relieved that at least the candy could distract him. Any small change might make all the difference in Matthew's justifiably gloomy mood.

"Darling, I want you to write a maths pillow talk book," Mary said, playfully walking her fingers towards his candy again. He needed an occupation while confined to his hospital bed, and she thought this was the perfect solution.

"You could write a chapter on that cipher code you used for my birthday, or on the butterfly effect." Mary lowered the fabric of her blouse to reveal the tattoo they shared.

Matthew scoffed at the suggestion. But after a pause, he did speak, his soft tone guarded. "How about the story of Einstein and the death of his friend, Besso?" His voice was unsteady, and the bitterness resonated between them. She couldn't help thinking of Isobel's analogy that Matthew was behaving as thought he was a boxer locked in a darkened room and all he could do was continue to punch, even though he couldn't see or even know what he would hit in his path. Mary empathetically moved closer to him as she perched on his bed. "Tell me about Besso," she encouraged.

"Einstein," his jaded voice continued, "said that Besso's death meant nothing," he paused, "because separation between past, present, and future was only an illusion, although a convincing one." Matthew cleared his throat before continuing, "Sometimes I wish I was that detached."

"I wouldn't envy Einstein," Mary said, taking her husband's hand. "He married his cousin," she added flirtatiously, trying to rally his sunken spirits as best she could. "The fact of the matter is I need your help," she continued coyly, trying to spark his interest in this challenge. She finally stole a piece of his candy and noticed his slight grin at her thievery. "We have plenty of time - backwards, forwards, or whichever you choose," she concluded with confidence.

Tentatively, Matthew spoke again, his voice awash in emotions as they made eye contact.

"Stephen Hawking has a theory, a scientific version of forever. It's called imaginary time, because it is not the kind of time we normally experience." He brought her hand with the diamond engagement ring that was now her wedding band to his lips for a kiss. "That theory of forever makes me think of my love for you."

Mary smiled eloquently as she leaned over him for a kiss. "You use maths; I use poetry. You say golden ratio, and I say John Keats. He wrote, 'beauty is truth, truth beauty, that is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'"

"We could write it together," Matthew said quietly as he was caught up in the moment. He stared, transfixed, a tentative smile awaiting her next kiss.

_And so imaginary time skipped forward and then back, like ripples on a pond._

* * *

The sun was unseasonably warm for the end of September. Though Matthew was supposed to be on strict bed rest, his co-conspiriting mother and wife were allowing him some freedom to savor the late-summer day. As he sat on the screened porch, Matthew was resolved to make the most of his time and was basking in the sunshine. The recliner he sat in was surprisingly more comfortable than he had imagined it would be. His damaged spine could feel the craftsmanship in the furniture and appreciate it on a new level. The placement of the armrests and the detectable ottoman both aided his clumsy and limited movements. Since Mary had adjusted a lumbar pillow behind him, Matthew found his position was tolerably adequate; about as good as it could be given his back injury. It was safe to say Matthew's state of mind during the last ninety days had been a quixotic journey; day by day, chapter by chapter. He wouldn't be chasing any windmills with his bad back, but the idealism of Don Quixote still rang in his ears, Mary's voice having given life to the whimsy of the novel. He loved to listen to her read. Mary was his golden ratio, pleasing to the mind as well as the eye. If the philosophy of aesthetics declared the golden ratio's proportions pleasing, then an expert in any field - be it science, philosophy, or the arts - would find Mary beautiful in every possible way.

Matthew thought about the word "home." Since he had only recently returned from the hospital, to him the word had evolved to mean only one definition, and that was his wife. The word "home" had become synonymous with Mary. Home meant sanctuary. And, on the porch, he felt the rush of these thoughts. He was very tired, heavily medicated, and had not slept well _again_ last night. And while there was nothing unusual about the fact that he had awoken from a nightmare, it was the circumstances that bothered him so deeply.

_Last night, upon awakening in his hospital bed, he had been completely disorientated. However, he had only to look about his surroundings to recognize he was home, in his bedroom. When he saw Mary sleeping alone in their bed, it was more than he could bear. His disorientation felt cruelly like chaos theory - one little change and everything is different. He was sad, lonely, and very isolated. And Mary was so very far away._

_ The abstract of mathematical concepts that had always been a comfort abandoned him, because it was not actually pleasant to live through chaos. He was lost. But then Mary had appeared in his line of sight. At first, she didn't say anything and she didn't need to. She simply undressed in front of him, removing her nightgown, and then perched on his hospital bed. He had bought her that nightgown while they had been in New York getting reacquainted. Mary's actions had his attention. Matthew looked at her naked body displayed for him. __One little change and everything is different, __he thought again, and he reached out to touch Mary. She was so beautiful in the moonlight. And, although he could not make love to his wife traditionally, he could touch her anywhere as Mary's gaze encouraged him. And so he did. _

_ Matthew thought about the beginning of their relationship, and it gave him a small boost of confidence. He could give Mary pleasure just by his touch. And so he stroked his wife intimately, his fingers slowly caressing the soft skin of her thigh until gradually they were inside her. He loved the sensory control he had over Mary as she moaned as his touch penetrated deeper with each stroke. Out of the chaos that plagued him, there was this moment's creation. What the eye cannot see, the mind can imagine, and maths can prove. The clichés abounded in his heart; his mind no longer constrained to follow its whims as he watched the actions of his wife, the fearless beauty that she was as he pleasured her. And so, as she leaned towards him, his touch brought her to a climax. Her nipples were so close to him, taunting him. Despite the fierce ache in back, he moved to lick her, and at the first sensation of contact, Mary moved her body closer to accommodate him. He finished his ministrations and brought his hands higher along her slender curves. Mary put one knee on either side of him as he lay propped in bed. Matthew held her hips while she leaned over him but not on him. He lightly bit her supple nipples as they were pressed into his face. The view before his eyes was magnanimous. The air electrified around them, practically snapping and crackling, sparking like exposed wiring. _

_ Matthew traced the outline of the tattoo on her right breast and could almost see the butterfly flapping its wings. The flapping wings represented this chain of events, starting with his nightmare and how Mary had solved the problem. He was reassured once again by this mathematical conclusion. Matthew felt he had control on his reality once again, his equilibrium was whole, and he was comforted by his bedroom, his actions, and most of all, by Mary. Matthew exhaled a sudden lengthy yawn as his head was neatly cushioned between his wife's breasts, her fingers in his hair stroking with such soothing rhythm. And so, he fell asleep._

The clinking of ice cubes in the glass pitcher Mary carried pulled him from his memories of the previous night as she approached. And yet, when he saw the food on the tray she was carrying, he was suddenly annoyed. How many times did he have to tell her he was not hungry? He suspected the food was his mother's handy work.

"Darling," she said in greeting. "do you want to move outside now?"

His frustration all but faded away. Matthew shifted in the recliner, testing how he felt. A brief sluggish sensation of pain washed over him, but it was masked by the medication he had recently taken. Mary's smile on him was as warm as the sun.

"Yes," he found himself answering quickly.

As he shuffled with his walker, the steps didn't become easier, neither did they grow harder. Walking outside was a completely different a sensation than the carpet and hardwood floor of their condo. The feeling of grass under his bare feet was almost magical. Matthew would not have been surprised if he was told he was walking on a bed of four leaf clovers.

By the time he was seated outside, he was sweating, but it was a cold sweat despite the summer heat. And yet he felt rather indifferent to anything other than the satisfaction of having accomplished this small feat. He ignored all the painful stimuli trying to get his attention and smiled as he closed his eyes and leaned his head against his seat. Mary fussed all around him, and, suddenly, he felt a cool drink pressed into his hand. Matthew brought the beverage to his lips, his hand still slightly shaking from the exertion he had just put himself through.

"Is this homemade?" he asked as he sipped the delicious drink.

"I took lemons and made them into lemonade," Mary said with a proud giggle. "Your mother showed me how."

Matthew had to laugh at that statement. The smile stayed on his face as he looked at his wife. He took another sip, relishing her creation.

"I know you're not hungry," Mary said assertively, "but I thought I would read to you if you agreed to eat something. Quid pro quo."

Matthew looked at the food on the tray. There was cheese and crackers, fruit, pretzels, and almond butter all ready for the sampling. Then he looked at the books she had also carried outside. One of them did peak his interest.

"I accept your terms," he said quietly. She placed the food on a side table next to him with an expression of smug victory, which amused him. As he ate, Matthew realized his reluctance had been misguided. It was true that the pain medication often upset his stomach, and, therefore, he thought he wasn't hungry. But the food did taste good with the combination of salt and sugar and then creamy and crunchy foods. Definitely his mother's handiwork, he thought, this time with appreciation.

"'A Sound of Thunder,'" Matthew finally said, pointing to the book of Ray Bradbury's short stories. He dipped a pretzel in the almond butter and chewed with contentment. "Please."

Mary's bare feet curled under her summer dress as she rearranged herself to recline in her chair. Matthew shifted in his recliner and stretched his bare feet again. Suddenly, he realized he was outside in his pajamas. Matthew's eyes met Mary's as he self-consciously glanced down at his casual attire. They laughed together, sharing the tranquil moment. At least there was a tall hedge around their garden.

As Mary began to read, Matthew listened to her voice, but he didn't need to concentrate on the science fiction story. He knew the story's plot was about time travel and the butterfly effect. It prophesied the consequences of how all actions have a direct reaction and how, sometimes, events that occur can never be undone.

"_So be careful. Stay on the path. Never step off."_

Mary looked up from her reading, and their eyes met. Matthew was thinking again of the events from last night, and he wondered if she was too. His wife smiled at him. Matthew yawned and then realized his mind had been wondering. Mary was almost at the end of the story.

"_Not a little thing like that! Not a butterfly!" cried Eckels. _

_It fell to the floor, an exquisite thing, a small thing that could upset balances and knock down a line of small dominoes and then big dominoes and then gigantic dominoes, all down the years across time. Eckel's mind whirled. It wouldn't change things. Killing one butterfly couldn't be that important! Could it?"_

Matthew watched as Mary gulped as she continued to read the final grim conclusion. It was not a happy ending. He knew the last lines of the story, yet a chill ran through him when Mary said the words.

"_There was a sound of thunder."_

Somehow, this story had always affected him, ever since his father had read it to him as a little boy. Matthew licked his lips and breathed out the air he had been holding. But, before he could say anything or even meet Mary's penetrating gaze, there was a distant rumbling of thunder. Matthew had been oblivious to the blue sky clouding over and growing ominously dark. He reached for his lemonade to finish it, but his hand froze as a butterfly was hovering over the sugary drink. It was gold, black, and green, just as the butterfly had been described in the story.

"Mary," he whispered at the sight, completely transfixed. But then the small creature flapped its wings and flew away. It was maths philosophy in action. The thunder cracked again in the distance.

"Matthew," he heard Mary whisper in his direction, breaking through his trance.

"I saw it, darling, the butterfly effect," she said with a smile while approaching him, ready to assist him. Her voice was calm and soothing. The wind was picking up, and the afternoon sky was growing dark. It was going to start raining soon. A storm was brewing. He looked at her, his emotions brimming with love and trust in his wife, his home.

* * *

When Mary returned home from her martini night out with several girlfriends, it was well past 2 o'clock in the morning. But the first thing she did was check her mailbox. She was rewarded with several catalogs, magazines, and a mysterious envelope. Mary's fingers traced the antique stationary that was printed in brown and dusty blue with a whimsical butterfly print. It said simply _"My soul is in the sky." – William Shakespeare_. She hurried to her bedroom suite to open the envelope. Perched on her window seat, Mary was excited as she read her love note.

The first page of the letter, was simply the alphabet and then the coded writing completely baffled her.

_** 13 +1+ 18 +25,**_

_** 9 **_

_** 12 + 15 + 22 + 5 **_

_** 25 + 15 + 21,**_

_** 8+ 1+ 16 + 16 + 25**_

_** 2+ 9 + 18 + 20 + 8 + 4 + 1+ 25!**_

It was obviously a code, and she smiled. As she again turned another page, she finally found written language she could understand. Her smile grew across her face.

_"Mary, you are my prime meridian,"_ Matthew had written at the top of the page. _"For your birthday, I have a present for you regarding your birthstone, the diamond."_ He had then scribbled a drawing of the night sky and a compass. She could see the time and devotion he had put into the sketches. Matthew had first traced them in colored pencil and then used watercolors to illuminate all around the drawings. Mary was completely touched as she continued to read his letter.

"_Time is all about perspective. Normally, we watch one point followed by the next, each second a step along a straight path. But astronomy is about looking back into the past – while still being in the present. Your birthday signifies another trip around the sun has been completed; another year has come and gone. It is nonlinear only to our point of view. Meet me at the Royal Observatory Greenwich 6pm tomorrow, and we can celebrate." _

Mary's eyes scanned the last page, and she found a footnote.

"_P.S. Have you figured out the code yet? If not, let me give you another hint._

_Love, (12 + 15 + 22 + 5)_

_Matthew (13 + 1 + 20 + 20 + 8 + 5 + 23)_

Mary quickly flipped back to the alphabet and numbers aligned together on the first page. She counted the alphabet's twenty six letters and saw he was using them in numerical order. It was a simple but clever trick.

_** Mary,**_

_** I **_

_** Love you**_

_** Happy Birthday!**_

Mary was used to birthdays being extravagant affairs with lavish presents, yet she had just been overwhelmed by a coded love note with watercolor drawings on antique stationary. Although the diamond was her birthstone, she thought that Matthew was in fact the true diamond. He was her diamond in the rough.

Despite the time, she decided she was going to surprise him. In the lobby of her parents' building, she found the building manager, Mr. Carson, working the night shift. He was concerned but immediately arranged for a taxi. Mary was very amused that the very mention of going to see Matthew seemed to alleviate his worries. Her fiancée was apparently already on Carson's good side. During the cab ride, Mary came up with a plan to surprise Matthew. But then she felt the buzz of her earlier celebratory drinking wearing off, and, as she sobered up, Mary questioned what she was doing. However, she squashed these sudden doubts, confident Matthew would enjoy this surprise. After all, he had given her a key. Until they found a place where they could live together, they were spending the majority of their time at his place. Mary removed the clip holding up her long hair and combed through the strands. She refreshed her makeup and lipstick and closed her vanity case with a wicked grin.

Mary paid the cab driver and approached Matthew's front door. She used her key and quietly entered his flat. It was very dark in his living room, but she didn't turn on the lights. Mary saw the outline of a tall, lean body on the couch. The thrill of desire, of conquest, went through her body, and she felt completely driven by the lust. She quickly stripped off her clothing until she was nude and covered only by the moon light. Mary smiled as she approached the couch and felt the ache in her body increase with each hasty step as she tiptoed. She reached out to touch him when her attention was diverted to the hallway light being switched on.

"William, if you need anything else…."

Mary screamed a high-pitched wail of surprise at the sight of her fiancée in his pajamas. He was _not_ the man on the couch. She looked back at this mysterious figure, and their eyes unfortunately meet. William awkwardly turned away. Matthew removed his robe and used it to shield her body as he guided her into his bedroom.

"_Mary,"_ he said in exasperation, _"what are on you doing here?"_

She couldn't help but laugh at the situation that went so horribly wrong. Mary shook her head and shrugged her shoulders as she looked at Matthew; he was staring at her, expecting some kind of answer. Since Mary didn't quite know what the etiquette of apology was for such a situation, she pushed him into a chair and simply sat on his lap. He allowed her to manipulate these movements, so she was free to start kissing him. Matthew was easily distracted.

"It's really your fault," Mary finally said between kisses. She could feel Matthew tense up at this declaration.

"My fault?" he huffed, twisting away from her next set of kisses.

Mary only smiled and pressed her weight more firmly into his lap. Matthew groaned.

"Yes," she answered eloquently. "I read your letter, figured out your code, and then I had no choice but to come and see you."

This elicited a smile from her fiancée. He ran his fingers through her long, wavy locks of hair.

"Prove to me you figured it out," Matthew demanded as he brushed her hair away from her face. There were a lot of words Mary could use to describe his demeanor, yet impious was not an adjective that normally came to mind. Mary pulled the sash on Matthew's bathrobe and exposed her naked body to him. She loved the way he looked at her. He licked his lips and stared, apparently having lost all train of thought and all use of his voice.

"Well, darling," Mary purred tantalizingly, "you used the alphabet's letters in numerical form to tell your little story." She kissed the sensitive skin of his neck instead of his lips. Mary knew he loved to be caressed there, and she was happy to oblige. He gasped at the contact when she rolled her tongue up and down over his neck and jaw line.

Matthew reached out to touch her breasts delicately. "124," he said to her quietly as he stroked, "That is the sum for _I love you_ in the code you broke," he concluded with a smile. Mary ceased her nibbling to look at him. Their eyes held together in the same orbit of their glances.

"Tell me about this diamond surprise," she said with anticipation. Mary held up her ruby and diamond engagement ring to admire it.

"The Royal Observatory has a telescope that can see fifty light years away to a white dwarf star in the constellation Centaurus." Matthew paused before he continued with a deep breath. "This star is described as having a core of crystallized carbon and oxygen nuclei, which means, in essence, it is a diamond in the sky… Well…I thought you would like to see it, especially as it's named Lucy, after the Beatles' song. It seemed like fun, but if you don't want…"

Mary stopped Matthew's rambling the simplest way she knew how: by kissing him. It was a completely beautiful, symbolic gift. Mary had never been given such a heartfelt present before. She could feel that Matthew was surprised as their lips smashed together unexpectedly. As they broke apart, she tapped her fingers across his mouth, tracing their outline. His shy smile grew more hearty and filled with lust, matching her sentiments exactly.

"Did that convince you I want to go see my diamond surprise?"

"Convince me again," Matthew insisted with a quirk of his eyebrows. Mary played along and threw her arms around his shoulders. The kiss they shared was out of this world.

* * *

Reading list for this chapter!

Keats, John. "Ode on a Grecian Urn." Poetry Foundation. July 2013. Web. 14 July.2013.

Bradbury Ray, "A Sound of Thunder," in R is for Rocket, (New York: Doubleday, 1952)

Links available on tumblr (wdedalus) to read these selections on line.


	9. Hello, Goodbye

My thanks to all readers, reviewers etc but colossal appreciation reserved especially for R. Grace.

This is a landmark chapter in the evolution of Mary and Matthew's relationship. Back and forth in time.

"The only reason for time is so that everything doesn't happen at once."

-Albert Einstein

Enjoy!

* * *

_The credits were rolling after "Sleepless in Seattle." Mary and Matthew shared a tender look. Films had always played a role in their relationship. When Mary yawned, however, Isobel took the opportunity to suggest she leave Matthew's hospital room. _

"_It's time for you to get some proper rest," Isobel insisted quietly. _

_Mary's silent protest filtered through the room, until her husband also insisted._

"_You know where to find me," Matthew said around his own yawn. Mary reluctantly stood and stretched. It was true she was completely exhausted. And so she leaned over her husband for a goodbye kiss. Matthew drowsily watched his wife go. As he admired her figure in the sleek trousers she was wearing, he remembered the evocative night when he had first seen her wear them... _

* * *

The news was unbelievable. Tears stung Matthew's eyes. Lavina's cancer had returned, and this time it was terminal. Matthew thought wistfully about the first time they had met as little children. Lavinia had called his father, Dr. Crawley, "Reggie the savior." And her father, also named Reginald, had often joked about the nickname. Sometimes Matthew had wondered if he was jealous. As long as he had known Lavinia, her father was her only parent, and he took the role very seriously. Lavinia's mother was a ghost in her memory.

Lavinia had always been consistently emphatic that she didn't want any other doctor but his father to treat her. Well, Matthew thought glumly, she would get her wish now. They would soon be reunited. These people he loved were liars, pretending there wasn't a problem, while they silently suffered. His father had ignored his heart condition symptoms. That deception was the same as Lavinia's about her illness.

After his father's sudden death, Lavinia had suggested they bury his stethoscope in her backyard. Their private funeral tribute had meant more to him than the actual ceremony. Matthew was sure his father would have appreciated the symbolic meaning of their actions. But now as an adult, he wondered about his friend's motive. Had that act been her resignation to fate? Matthew felt a chill go through him as he traded the now empty beer bottle for his mobile. The battery was low, and it flashed at him with urgency. He bit back a sob as he stared. His mind returned to earlier that evening, when his mobile had vibrated in his pocket.

It was a chain reaction. He had entered his flat carrying a bag of groceries, his briefcase, as well as his rowing clothes, and had been surprised when he heard the slight noise. Juggling all of this in his arms awkwardly, he lost control. The bags fell to the floor, apples rolling with a bounce and eggs cracking in the container on impact as he dropped his groceries. And yet the phone still vibrated. And he still heard it. He was meant to hear that vibration. It could not be ignored. Cursing under his breath at his clumsiness, he answered his phone, despite the fact that the screen read _unknown caller_. His agitation was cut short by the sharp bark of his name, the voice barely restrained from being hostile.

"Reggie," he replied, addressing Lavinia's father with surprise. Matthew looked at the chaos of his groceries on the floor and felt a sense of intense foreboding.

"I'm at the hospital with Lavinia. I found her unconscious and couldn't wake her." There was a pause on the line.

Though they hadn't always enjoyed a close relationship, he did respect Lavinia's father. And Reggie was the reason he had trained to be a solicitor, although he no longer practiced. They had never spoken about his career shift into financial consulting, but Matthew had a hunch that he had deeply disappointed his mentor. On Lavinia's last birthday, Reggie had leaned across the table in the crowded restaurant and conceded, "As long as my daughter is happy, Matthew, you will make me happy."

The collar of his autumn jacket was too tight, and Matthew tried to free himself from the bulky material, but the zipper stuck in the track. His tense fingers nervously clutched the fastener, but it would not budge.

"It is terminal, Matthew," Reggie said, his harsh voice weakening.

"Terminal," Matthew found himself repeating. He thought about his father's death. No warning and no clues.

"_Don't_ come here. That is out of the question and unacceptable. I'll call you tomorrow." Reggie barked his orders and ended the call abruptly.

Matthew sat holding the mobile until the battery finally died. He threw the useless object and watched it break into pieces against his kitchen wall. He moved to the fridge and drained two more bottles of beer in quick succession. The bile in his throat, the fear in his stomach, and the pain in his heart, however, were unrelenting. If only Lavinia had told him. He was about to scream when his doorbell unexpectedly buzzed.

Feeling a surge of rage at the interruption, Matthew stormed to the door. But when he opened it, he saw Mary Crawley cradling a bottle of wine, and he froze. Her brow was creased with sad little worry lines etched into her usually glamorous demeanor. Though it was inappropriate to think such lecherous thoughts, he was mesmerized by her casual appearance. Mary was able to distract him. She wore a brown jumper with a bow and pompoms decorating the material. But the biggest transformation made his eyes bulge. It was the first time he had ever seen her wearing trousers; she had always worn dresses or skirts. The scintillating material was translucent green and khaki silk that hugged her curves. They were extremely becoming on her, hinting just enough at her shapely figure.

"Matthew?" she spoke timidly. He stormed away from the door, realizing that he must look a fright, tears having streamed down his face, his eyes red and puffy. He had only taken two steps when she grabbed his arm.

"Tell me," she insisted, her voice rough with emotion. Her grasp on his arm was fierce. He tried to pull away.

"I had plans with Lavinia tonight – we were going to watch a film – but she wasn't home. The housekeeper wouldn't tell me anything, but she was crying." Mary kept talking, and her words had a sharp edge to them. "Lavinia's mobile goes straight to voicemail, and you didn't answer." Matthew stared at her pristine red fingernails digging into his goose pimpled flesh. He felt a tremor overtake him.

"You know what is going on. You must know. Matthew, you know everything about Lavinia!" He looked at her, bringing his eyes up from her hand on his arm, and saw the concern in her deep sable eyes. The fact that Mary believed in him was the last straw.

"Not everything," he heard himself say. His limbs simply gave way, and he collapsed.

After he had exhausted his tears and told Mary about Reggie's phone call they sat together on the sofa. Matthew couldn't stop talking, and he even told Mary the story about burying his father's stethoscope. He had no restraint; the flood gates had been opened. Eventually, Mary made popcorn and put in the film she had brought to watch with Lavinia. It was "Sleepless in Seattle," a very different selection then the typical art house or foreign classics they typically saw together in movie theatres. Matthew didn't even complain that Mary had managed to burn microwave popcorn, because he found her bungling of such a simple task actually quite endearing. So, they watched the movie in silence and finished all of his beer and her bottle of wine. With the stress of the evening and the alcohol in his system, it wasn't long before Matthew found himself nodding off.

* * *

_And then he was falling. In the dream, there was nothing he could do to resist the pull of gravity. Matthew took little comfort from his understanding of maths when he landed on the ground with a thud. All of the air inside him rushed out of his body on impact, and he gasped and wheezed. An object at rest must remain at rest - Isaac Newton's first law of motion. _

"_Matthew!" His father's voice was panicked, and then his practiced hands were examining him. _

"_Matthew!" His mother's emotional voice was unable to hide the fact that she was crying._

_ And then, swiftly, he was in his father's arms, having been picked up in one calm, rocking motion. It was the last hug. It was hello and it was goodbye. His father set the broken bone, explaining that it was only a minor fracture. He put an icepack on Matthew's arm and a sling around his shoulder, and then he said he would be right back. Matthew sat with his mother and Lavinia, and they waited. He drank a glass of water and took paracetamol. But soon there was another reason to panic when his papa didn't return. His mother soon discovered his father in the lavatory, having had a massive heart attack. His papa was dead. When Matthew finally laid down to sleep that night, he tried to convince himself it was all a bad dream._

* * *

Matthew awoke to a feather-light kiss on his cheek, a soft stroking of fingers in his hair. He was crying again. Mary squeezed his left hand as he struggled to wake up. The sensation of falling was so vivid and the pain of his father's death made him shiver. His worst nightmares had always been constructed from his own memories. Matthew looked into Mary's eyes and, suddenly, he felt no pain. He had never seen Mary with her hair down before. It was longer than he had imagined. The mascara she was wearing was smudged. She was beautiful.

"Hush," she cooed at him. "It's alright. It's perfectly alright." Her voice broke, betraying the emotion she so adequately concealed on most occasions. Only during films had he ever seen her cry before, only when the music swelled and the dramatic score deemed it okay for emotions to be brought forward. Sometimes she had even rested her head on his shoulder when the plot took a turn for the worst, when the tragic lovers would be kept apart or the hero was doomed. From the first film they had ever seen together, before they were even friends, he had felt a deep connection with her. He had always loved being with Mary in the dark.

Mary took his breath away, and he wanted to kiss her. So he did.

Matthew felt his tongue slam against the walls of her cheekbones as he kissed her with every ounce of his determination. He didn't think, he _couldn't _think about anything other than her kiss. For once in his life, he was reckless, he was wild, and he did what pleased him.

Mary returned his kiss, and, suddenly, she had crawled on top of him where he lay slouched on the couch. With one swift movement, she pulled her jumper over her head. Matthew watched, transfixed, as she swayed her hips against his growing erection. From her position seated in his lap, their legs intertwined and instinctively wrapped around each other. It was only then that he realized Mary was no longer wearing the translucent trousers he had so readily admired. He put his hand on her exposed thigh, flesh on flesh.

As he lay passively back, Mary came down on top of him, kissing him frantically. Her hair spread over him like a silken a waterfall, and he could barely see her through the waves of brunette locks. Next, she shed her bra and rubbed her bare breasts against him. His hands fumbled for the zipper of his jeans, but her nimble fingers were already there ahead of him. She shimmed the fabric down just enough to find what she was looking for. Matthew felt as though he was in a trance as she manipulated his entrance into her body. It was a manic rush of the unknown, and yet it felt natural the way Mary touched him. He felt paralyzed, exhausted, and, oddly enough, content. As if their union was the solution. Sex had _never_ felt like this before. It had never been forceful, passionate, even violent with need.

Mary kept one hand on their union and the other went to his head, her fingers almost pulling out his hair as she peaked. Matthew cried out her name, and then, all too soon, it was over. She fell on top of him once again, kissing him repeatedly up and down his face, but he didn't move. His mind went blank, and he enjoyed the stupor. Though Matthew wanted to fondle and touch her - he ached to return each and every one of her kisses - he found he couldn't, for it would break the spell. So, he closed his eyes and just released moan after moan as she kissed and nibbled the stubble on his jaw. Matthew absorbed her affection greedily. He fell asleep once again that night with Mary holding his left hand, delicately, as if his arm might break again.

* * *

_Matthew was falling. Though how this was possible he was not sure, as the cherry tree that had once stood in his parents' garden had been removed, its roots dug up. The tree no longer existed. And yet he was falling from it again, just as he had when he was a boy. _

_ He was sitting on a branch with Lavinia as they picked the fruit and ate it. The cherries grew in pairs, and they laughed together as the juice dribbled down their chins. Matthew told her he wanted to carve their names into the tree, to put M+L side by side forever. He picked a cherry blossom and handed it to her shyly, then he lost his balance. But he didn't try to reach for her. No, Lavinia must stay safe and protected. As he continued to fall, Matthew looked at his left arm, seeing that it was not broken. But perhaps that was because he had not landed yet. As soon as he made contact with the ground the limb would snap. The voices of his parents overshadowed everything else. _

_ This was what had happened to him as a boy. He had not reached for Lavinia as he fell. She had remained above him, on her pedestal. He'd worn a cast on his left arm and she had signed it M+L. It made him smile despite the heartache of his father's sudden death. Lavinia's bravery always inspired him. He wiggled his fingers as the cast itched, and then it disappeared, the white plaster turning into a long, white bed sheet that had wrapped around him instead._

_ Matthew wasn't falling anymore. And yet something was happening to him. He couldn't protect Lavinia the way he had wanted to since he was a little boy. He was a failure. She had eventually fallen, as she succumbed to the cancer that had held her hostage throughout much of her life. Matthew was saying goodbye to her again. He gave her one last kiss on her cheek. There was a vase of cherry blossoms by her bedside, and she smiled weakly at him. _

"_I want you to be happy," Lavinia whispered to him. "Promise me you will fall in love," she feebly tried to command him. But Matthew didn't want to fall again. He was reminded of the Albert Einstein quotation, "You can't blame gravity for falling in love." Without thinking, he joined her in the small space. He didn't want to lose his friend. The white sheet of Lavina's bedding wrapped around him, binding him to the bed. She gradually disappeared, and he was left alone in her hospital bed._

_ Matthew didn't know he should have braced for impact. He didn't have enough time to react. But it was a familiar sensation; it was similar to falling. There were no sounds filling the void before, during, and after the car crash. His eyes focused on his left arm as he clutched the steering wheel, the force of the impact making him release his grip, reluctantly, unexpectedly. But he had no choice. He was jolted something fierce, twice in a quick succession. There was the initial crash on William's side and then a subsequent consequential crash that followed in London's busy midday traffic._

_ That was all he could remember. Even though they had been sitting so close together in the driver and passenger seats of the small luxury car, Matthew couldn't turn his head to see his friend. He couldn't reach his arm across the small divide that separated them. William had not been restrained; he had not been wearing his seatbelt. Matthew knew that and yet he had not tried to reach out for his friend._

_ And so Matthew was returned to Lavinia's hospital bed. He was wrapped in the delicate white sheet again. And he saw the impossible; William was approaching him with a black marker in his hand. He sat on the bed, and Matthew could feel the vibrations of William's legs restlessly bouncing, as they so often did. Matthew watched, almost hypnotized by his presence as William signed the cast that had reappeared on his left arm. His friend smiled with his typical excited energy. Matthew saw his father's stethoscope hung around his neck, and he gasped at the magic of the moment. As William finished writing, Matthew struggled to read what was written on his cast. The words were a jumble of letters like alphabet soup. But as he focused, he saw it was another Albert Einstein quote: "The most incomprehensible thing about the world is that it is comprehensible." _

"_Thank you, William," he said reverently. "Thank you," he repeated the words, awed by the serene smile on his friend's face._

* * *

Suddenly, the strong aroma of peppermint flooded his senses. He blinked, and William was gone. There was no time even for a goodbye.

"Matthew..."

He heard his name and felt a surge of panic. _Oh no_. _No!_ He was confused, and he was falling yet again. And he had never learned how to brace for impact. Not when he had fallen from the cherry tree and not when he was in the car crash. He tried to reach out, even though he knew it was too late.

"Matthew.."

He was being called, beckoned to awake.

He was dreaming. His mind had been playing tricks on him again. Tears, hot and wet, slid down his face, and he couldn't breathe. Matthew felt a sharp intake of panic as his dulled reflexes returned to him. As the intense physical pain flood through him, his father's voice resonated in the back of his head, asking him, _where does it hurt?_ Matthew shuddered at the sharp pin pricks of grinding agony from his back. He was a broken mess of many varieties of pain.

"Take as deep a breath as you can manage," he heard a voice say, "and imagine you are blowing up a balloon." It wasn't any voice, but the strong, forceful instructions that could only be from his mother. He struggled to follow her commands as he was plagued by his panic attack.

"The air you are breathing needs to fill up your diaphragm," she said calmly. "Try to inhale and then exhale each breath through pursed lips," she dictated. He tried to follow her instructions, but instead choked. His tears increased as he did not understand how he could fail at something as simple as taking a deep breath.

"Concentrate Matthew," she said vehemently, her voice loaning him her soothing strength. Her fingers gently rubbed his sternum up and down his chest to encourage his breathing to alter and shift according to her demands.

"Think of the Red Balloon," she said affectionately. "Listen to me, and try again," she continued to coach him lovingly. "Take your time, Matthew. Breathe in and out."

Matthew was detached as he listened to his mother, but the magical edge of the red balloon imagery gave him a boost. Lavinia was his red balloon. William was his red balloon. Matthew thought of the task, filling up balloon after balloon. Ever since he was a child, he had loved the French film his mother had mentioned. It told the story of a lonely little boy named Pascal who befriends a red balloon who is sentient and becomes his companion. Eventually, the red balloon is burst by other jealous children. However, the death of his so-called friend is not the end. In a moment of magical realism, Pascal escapes from the bleakness around him, saved by a cluster of new multicolored balloons that rescue him and take him away from this tragedy. Last summer, he had attended a screening of this old favorite with Mary as they had slowly started to become friends.

Matthew opened his eyes as his breathing slowly became more controlled. He was unfortunately, as he already knew he would be, lying in a hospital bed, immobilized. Matthew felt his fingers pick at the white sheet that surrounded him, twisting the material as he remembered the vividness of his memories and then his dream. It had been a strange collage of the people he had lost, those close to him that no longer existed anywhere but in his heart or his head. And as Matthew continued to awaken, he realized that a part of his terror was because he was quite literally trapped. He could not get up out of this hospital bed, after all.

Matthew felt another tremor go through him at this painful revelation - the reality of the car accident that had claimed William's life and left him unable to move because of the broken vertebra in his back. Matthew could escape the trauma of the nightmare but not the reality he was now faced with. But this moment was interrupted by his mother gently wiping the tears from his face. He looked into her eyes, and she smiled at him without delay. Through the fog, Matthew felt a tiny bit of determination return to him despite the bleak depression that blanketed him. His mother squeezed his hand with reassurance. The scent of peppermint wrapped around him like a protective blanket, and for that he was grateful.

"Thank you, Mother," he said quietly as he closed his eyes and focused on his breathing.

"You're welcome Matthew," she responded fondly as she adjusted the tangled sheet covering him. He still had his mother; he had not lost her. And he still had Mary. The thought flooded through him like a shot of morphine. She was comfort personified.

"_I want Mary_," he found himself saying with urgent desperation. This time when Matthew opened his eyes he was surprised to notice how dark his hospital room was. For some reason, this had not been apparent only minutes ago when he had awoken from his nightmare.

"I sent your wife to get some rest," his mother reminded him. She tactfully omitted the word "home" in case it might further upset her vulnerable son. "It's the middle of the night, Matthew."

The words churned through his head. Mary was his wife. And the way his mother spoke this moniker was a pleasant reminder that there was nothing left to hide. She knew the truth behind how they had become a couple. There were no more secrets. However, this only made him crave Mary's presence all the more. Matthew couldn't help but plead with his eyes. His mother must have understood the meaning of his glance.

"I'm sorry," she said, squeezing his hand. He closed his eyes in defeat.

But then the magic in his story appeared. Matthew didn't hear the door open; he didn't pay attention to his mother's pleasant gasp of surprise. There was now another visitor in his hospital room. A hand reached out for him, but this time it did not belong to his mother.

"I'm here," Mary said gently. "I couldn't stay away." She shared a smile with Isobel.

Matthew was so afraid of being wrong, of being lied to or being tricked. At first, he was sure he was experiencing another dream, a clever nightmare that would seduce him first with comfort before pouncing on him with terror.

"Open your eyes, my darling," she spoke serenely, "and then you will see I am real."

Mary leaned over her husband, and Matthew found it easy to take a deep breath when he recognized the ginger scent of her perfume. It captured him. And so, he opened his eyes. Mary was the cluster of balloons that would rescue him. He said goodbye to his nightmare, and hello to his wife.

* * *

So there you have it... M&M's first time together. It has been alluded to in previous chapters with "Backwards foreshadowing" as R. Grace once said so profoundly.

I'd love to hear your thoughts, feelings, comments about this chapter!

And there will be a flood of posts on tumblr - wdedalus.


	10. Surface Tension

_A short summary of this non-linear universe - inspired by Rudyard Kipling's poem, " If."_

"If…

Mary can take care of Matthew; she can take care of the world.

Because that is what he is to her."

_And vice versa in this interchangeable love story._

"If …

Matthew can take care of Mary; he can take care of the world.

Because that is what she is to him."

* * *

_Thank you one and all - here is another chapter! Kudos to R. Grace for being a kick-ass editor and consort!_

Now read on...

* * *

_Since Matthew's car accident, Mary had missed several calls from her friend, Lucy, and she hadn't returned them. She had no desire for sympathetic platitudes or phony clichés about loss and healing. Mary simply wanted to focus on her husband. Although Lucy was a top notch companion when shopping or traveling, she was a disappointment when it came to understanding her relationship with Matthew. When her phone rang, Mary checked the caller id before letting it go to voice mail again. She continued to search through her closet, focusing on what she would wear to the hospital. Suddenly, near the back she saw the beautiful gown she had worn to the Black and White Ball was neatly hung next to her silly western costume. Mary felt tears in her eyes when she thought of these moments in relation to her friend Lucy as her relationship with Matthew had progressed._

* * *

Matthew hated the looks he was being given. His father-in-law's engagement present completely misrepresented him. Mary's parents were hosting a Black and White Ball to benefit the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust, since it was March 15th- The Ides of March. Matthew rubbed his temples as he sat in the idling sports car; he hated driving the Jaguar but it was his obligation now. He knew he was in store for a completely dreary evening and not just because of the somber overtones the weather cast on his mood. As he was relieved of the ridiculous Jaguar with a valet stub parking ticket, he noticed it had a quote from Shakespeare's _Julius Caesar_ on it. Matthew felt leery but read anyway.

_ "He is a dreamer; let us leave him: pass." Act 1, Scene 2._

While he waited to check his coat, he retrieved a throat lozenge from his pocket. Matthew was seriously feeling out of sync with the world around him. In keeping with the night's event, Mary had purchased him an elegant white suit with a black tie. The ensemble had been the result of several hours of shopping while she'd dressed him like a doll.

The invited guests at the Black and White Ball were to be treated to a four-course meal followed by an evening of symphony music and dancing. The prospect should have cheered him, yet he was dreading all of it. A white tuxedo seemed suddenly like a bad idea for the way he was feeling. He sneezed, and everyone seemed to notice with sneers of contempt. Matthew saw Mary's friend Lucy from across the room, and her condescendingly fake smile grinned at him as their paths crossed. She waved and said, "Hi Matt," before moving on in the crowd, her attention turned towards her squad of friends. As if on cue, they all snickered and laughed. It made his stomach churn and his head ache.

As he awkwardly milled through the room, he couldn't help but suddenly cough, and the action seemed to offend more guests, just as his sneeze had earlier. Since he could not find Mary, he located the bar and ordered a whiskey. He was still chilled from the outside weather, his nerves apparently not ready to surrender to the warmth of the ballroom.

"I found you," a very sultry voice purred behind him. He could smell her ginger perfume. Mary placed her hands over his eyes. "And you're mine now." Her voice bubbled with delight which did finally give him a little relief. He felt his body respond just at the prospect of her beauty, at the visual feast he was about to experience. Matthew still felt jittery with overwhelming adoration that Mary was his future bride.

"Since I'm sure to be rendered speechless, let me tell you how beautiful you are now, and how I feel like the luckiest man alive," Matthew said, removing her hands and turning around.

Mary's dress was truly spectacular, and his jaw hung open just as he had predicted. She was a vision that belonged at the ball. Her white gown shimmered, and the thin overlay of black and white lace ruffled where the material overlapped. The dress was quite becoming on his fiancée. He wanted to see Mary spin in the material so he could take in the full view of her glory.

"I take it you approve," Mary said. Her gaze seemed to read his mind as she spun once for him. She was a transcendent goddess before him, while he was only a mere mortal.

"Nod once if you agree," she teased. Matthew did as he was told, and Mary kissed him lightly. "You're late," she then scolded him. "That is not like you. So, I had to defend you to my friends already." But before he could explain or apologize, she had started talking again, changing the subject.

"I've shown this to about everybody in this room already," Mary announced with a grin, displaying the engagement ring on her left hand. Matthew finished his whiskey in one gulp.

"Except I refuse to show my precious to the lady over there," Mary said pointing. "She reminds me too much of the bag lady Lucy and I saw outside the Duomo in Milan. I still don't understand how a person living in Milan could have no sense of fashion."

"Mary," Matthew chastened, trying not to be agitated by her callous story, but he had heard it, or variations of it, half a dozen times already. "Why do you keep drawing attention to a probably homeless woman's lack of fashion sense? That is just cruel."

Mary quirked her eyebrows at him and ran the hand decorated by her engagement ring up his arm.

"You're too sensitive. It is just an innocent story we made up about a stranger."

"I just don't see the point in mocking a stranger, especially when it has been rehashed so many times."

"I thought math geeks liked repetition," Mary tried to joke, but she soon saw he was in no mood for the kidding. He looked flushed, and she wondered how many drinks he might have had before she found him. Matthew did not have much of a tolerance for alcohol. Giving into her own annoyance and frustration that he wouldn't play along with her simple fun when she was trying to brag about their engagement, Mary snapped.

"Matthew, loosen up. You're so uptight; you are not the world's defender."

"Maybe I wouldn't be so defensive if you weren't constantly judging people. When I was a lawyer..."

It was Mary's turn to let her jaw drop. She interrupted him immediately for it seemed impossible.

"You? In court? I object! Were you able to accomplish this at such a young age because you were homeschooled?" She fondly teased him with a pleasant laugh.

However, it felt like a low blow to Matthew. He couldn't understand why Mary was so intent on teasing him tonight. And then he heard the harsh giggles of her friends across the crowded ball room. It was as though everything else was filtered out and he heard only their mockery. He walked back to the bar for another whiskey. Matthew knew there was no malice in her words, and yet they still deeply upset him. He felt a mess and a failure, certainly not prince charming. This was not how he wanted the evening to go at all. His head continued to pound, his throat felt raw, and his ear ache had also returned. He had medicine drops from his mother in his coat pocket, but he had forgotten to use them.

"Matthew," Mary said following after him. "What is the matter with you tonight?" She chose to bury the new information she had just learned about him for another time. Mary was more interested in the present and the future anyway.

For his part, he knew Mary had just asked him a valid question, but he didn't know how to answer it. He felt raw and exposed by her accusations. And yet he realized she had every right to be surprised about his past. There was no way for her to have known he had gone to law school. Mary was not Lavinia; he couldn't take anything for granted anymore. Details had to be shared, whatever the cost. How much more could Mary take before she tried of him? He felt as though he was constantly walking on egg shells.

Matthew looked at Mary in the fabulous gown and simply ached to tell her he loved her, would always love her, would do anything to make her happy, and yet he couldn't speak. It was as if there was a barrier between his brain, and his mouth and his heart didn't even factor into the equation anymore. He wanted to tell her how her appearance made him lustful and quite amorous, but he couldn't, not when her words had hurt him on a primal level. It was his bruised pride that finally made him speak up.

"Why do you always treat my homeschooling as if it were something I recovered from, like leprosy?" he found himself pleading. Matthew downed another whiskey in only a few sips, enjoying the way it burned down his throat, distracting him from his actual sore throat.

"Well, maybe the problem is more to do with the fact that we are rivals because you went to Cambridge and I went to Oxford."

"Now is not the time to joke Mary," Matthew said sullenly.

"Okay," Mary said rolling her eyes in exasperation. "What do you want me to say?" She bit back a further comment about how he was behaving just as her friends had predicted. He was a strange man who would eventually disappoint her, they had concluded.

Matthew shook his head, surprised by her question. It seemed to have shifted all the attention back to his demands, and he realized he didn't know what they were even arguing about. He took Mary's hand and led her through the ballroom until they found an empty table, further away from the loud roaring of the crowd. In the somewhat seclusion away from prying eyes, Matthew sat down and motioned for her to join him.

"Could we start over?" He pleaded taking her hand and bringing it to his lips for a kiss.

She smiled at him, and he was greatly relieved.

"You mean where I call you darling instead of a math geek?" Mary said, accepting a tiny bit of capability in their silly fight. She watched as Matthew released a long, shallow, nervous breath he seemed to have been holding while waiting for her answer. Mary was in awe at her fiancée. She had never known, let alone dated, anyone that provoked such passion in her before. Mary felt like a clean slate when she looked at him, as if he was the fountain of youth.

"Yes," he said fondly, still holding her hand, "I would appreciate something more like that."

"Well," Mary replied, reaching over to brush her free hand through his hair. "Darling, how was your day?" she asked simply.

Mary was starting to form a theory about his odd disposition.

"My day?" Matthew seemed surprised by her mundane question. Mary raised her eyebrows and prompted him to answer her question, which because of his manors, he was forced to oblige. She could have chuckled at the sweetness of his disposition, and she might have allowed herself to do so if he wasn't already on edge. Something was bothering him.

"Well, I met with several clients and…. " Matthew cleared his throat, "And then I had errands." He brought her hand to his lips again and kissed it.

"What errands?" she pressed him. "I thought William was your always present dutiful helper?"

"I had to pick something up at my mother's," Matthew said hesitantly. Their introduction had not gone exactly as he had hoped it would.

Mary felt her blood run almost cold; she could safely say that his mother was definitely an unexpected twist in their relationship. She had never met anyone that was more intimidating in her life. Mary had felt accused of sorcery, a witch on trial as she had sat in his mother's kitchen. She was asked countless questions and then offered cherry cobbler with a smile. And yet there was no mistaking her distinct impression that Isobel thought she was in no way good enough for her son. Suddenly, Mary looked at Matthew and saw the tired, puffy eyes, the flushed face, and his peeved disposition and wondered why he hadn't told her.

"You've been ill," she said. "Why didn't you tell me? I would have taken care of you, darling. You didn't have to go running back to your mother."

A part of Matthew was bowled over that she had decoded his secret, the other part touched by her sincerity, and then he was annoyed at her implication of being a momma's boy.

"My mother is a nurse," he said defensively.

That tender, forced smile on his face was back. And then Mary thought about the bag lady in Milan. She didn't mean it to be cruel, but she realized it did sound callous, at the very least. Lucy certainly wasn't known for her tact. Mary sighed. Having hop-scotched their way right into a sudden engagement was proving to be quite tricky from time to time, especially in circumstances such as they were in now. The thought that she couldn't cheer him up or take care of him adequately hurt her pride; she hadn't thought she was so superficial or selfish. But Matthew had avoided her when he was under the weather.

"You didn't have to come tonight," she said, returning his gesture by bringing his hand to her lips for a lingering kiss.

"Yes, I did," Matthew shot back stubbornly. He couldn't imagine the rubbish Mary's friends would have said about him if he was absent.

"Well darling," Mary said fondly, "since we are facing some facts here, I think you should face the fact you are exhausted and stressed. And I would like to take you home," she paused and added with a little romantic gleam in her eyes, "now."

There was a pause between them for a minute, especially once Mary realized what she had just actually said. She had been looking forward to this evening for weeks. The dress she was wearing was custom made, for heaven's sake! Mary wanted her friends to envy her and finally understand why she loved Matthew so very deeply. She had even hoped her father might make a toast to give them extra lavish attention, which she craved. However, the last spark of these desires became a thing of the past when Matthew spoke again.

"Lavinia, would have never spoken so bluntly to me," he said quietly.

"I'm not Lavinia," Mary said boldly, squeezing his hands.

Mary casually crossed her legs and subtly inched the ruffled material of her custom made dress up her thigh for him to witness. She enjoyed the way his hungry eyes bulged.

"Mary," he pleaded after licking his lips.

"Yes, darling?" she said innocently. He shook his head to try and focus.

"The truth is…" Matthew fidgeted with their intertwined hands. "I suppose I don't know what to do in our relationship. I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings by avoiding you. I always took care of Lavnia, but it didn't work the other way around. Her health was fragile, and I didn't want to expect anything or worry her, so..."

"Your mother really won't like me now, though," Mary said honestly. "Don't you see, darling?"

They shared a laugh together before Matthew started coughing.

"It is a pity I will have to divest you of that suit," Mary said running her hands up over his chest."But I suppose it will look good on your bedroom floor too," she said flirtatiously.

"We can have our own black and white ball," Matthew said, moving his hand in a risqué manor up her slightly exposed thigh and then under the thin silk lining of her dress. Mary gasped at his sudden boldness.

As they snuck out of the crowded ballroom, nobody seemed to notice their departure. Mary's last thought as she sat in their Jaguar driving away together was how if her father did give a toast and they couldn't be found, it would create a whole new kind of buzz. She would, therefore, get both the notoriety and a private evening with her fiancée; Mary could, in fact, have it both ways.

* * *

Several of Mary's old friends and their beau's had met her and Matthew to take in a special viewing of the movie, "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance kid." Westerns were a genre that neither she nor Matthew particularly cared for or understood, but the costume party before the screening had tempered her. Besides, Mary loved any excuse to dress up, and this was something completely different, outside the ordinary.

At the theatre, there were Wild West games being played before the movie. Mary was amused at how well Matthew had performed at the bobbing for apples and how poorly he did at the firing range. It was a stark contrast though when she watched her friends interact with Matthew. Lucy kept calling him "Matt" with a snicker.

"I prefer my full name," he said politely. However, Lucy's next barb was a low blow.

"Which is Door Matt?" She said before throwing her arm around him and offering reassurance that she was only kidding. It was rather a sycophantic display. Mary was rather blindsided by her friend's tactless behavior. It was as though now, for the first time, their separate worlds were colliding, and Mary didn't like the fallout. She felt betrayed and embarrassed. There was no possible way Matthew was having a good time, and yet he still kept a sweet, gentle smile on his face.

Mary felt almost a complete disconnect with some of her oldest companions. The shallow topics they discussed annoyed her. So, she was relieved when the theatre's fun and games finally wrapped up. Mary approached Matthew and, once again, admired his costume. He looked like the nicest cowboy she had ever seen. As she approached, his smile grew, and he tipped his cowboy hat in her direction. "Howdy ma'am," he said politely and extended his arm for her to take.

"This evening," Mary spoke quietly, "is not what I expected." It was her way of saying she was sorry in a discreet manor. "So, thank you for being such a good sport, darling."

"Mary," his voice was edgy, and she could hear the way his nerves affected his speech. And yet there was strength in the cadence of voice that surprised her. He might be a very sensitive person, but he was not easily bullied, she had discovered.

Matthew chuckled, "I would do anything for you."

She draped her arms around Matthew's neck. "I want you. Like one of those old fashioned wanted posters, except mine would be an advertisement boastfully proclaiming you as, _sexy and mine_."

"You do make me feel wanted Mary," he said tenderly. "All the time, every minute." He paused. "I've never had that constant feeling before. It crowds out all the other sensations. I like it," he concluded shyly.

Teasing and flirting were easy, but now Mary felt inadequate at his heartfelt declaration. She was guilty by association and berated herself for her cattish friends.

"Mary," he whispered, "shall I demonstrate this _wanted_ feeling?"

She looked into his loving expression and felt a charge of electricity jolt through her. It would be a pity not to encourage him. She loved to see that spark in his eyes, and so she nodded. His arms encircled her, supporting her as he dipped her low. His accompanying kiss showed absolutely no restraint. Mary was exceedingly pleased with the public display of affection. They only broke apart when her mobile started to vibrate in the pocket of her tiny skirt. Lost in the sensual moment, for an instant, she wondered if it was Matthew rubbing against her. He was, after all, responsible for producing the throbbing she felt between her legs.

As Matthew brought her back upright, they both giggled. Mary checked her mobile and found a catty text message from her friend Lucy: "_I saved seats for you and Door Matt. You're welcome_." She showed it to Matthew with a roll of her eyes. Mary proudly took his hand as they walked through the dark. She didn't care that no one could see them. It didn't matter what they thought anyway.

After the movie, they decided to go to her parents' penthouse. It was an easy decision because they were out of town and it was closer than Matthew's flat. They'd made it as far as the den when Mary couldn't wait any longer. She stripped off her costume eagerly to reveal her special brazier. It had tassels on the nipples and fringe all around the edges. Her bikini underwear were of a similar style. There was a certain novelty to the absurdity of this clothing that appealed to the adventurous side of their evolving relationship.

Matthew took a flask out of his trouser pocket and took a long sip before offering it to her, licking his lips at her sensual appearance. Mary noticed that he still had traces of her lipstick on his face from their kiss in the theatre lobby. She had left her mark on him. Mary took the offered flask and sipped. But she coughed upon taking in a rather large unexpected drink of whiskey.

"No wonder you were so easy going about my awful friends," she teased as she handed back the flask.

"Let's sit at the piano," he said playfully. And with one strong, confident maneuver, he picked Mary up and set her on top of the grand instrument. She laughed at her heightened position. Matthew had just, in a sense, set her on a pedestal above him. In nothing but her bra, panties, and cowboy boots she felt in complete control and loved the feeling of finally being alone with him. As his fingers experimented with the keys on the piano, Matthew's grin grew mischievous.

"She'll be _coming_ around the mountain when she _comes_," he sang his voice deeper and more sensual than she could have thought possible. Mary uncrossed her legs and reached out for Matthew. She locked her boots around his neck with a grin.

"Yeehaw!" Mary cried in mocking western twang as Matthew pushed her against the piano. She climbed down till she was seated on the black and white keys. Her body writhing against the cords produced strangely erotic background sounds for the intimacy they were about to share. Matthew was kissing and sucking her thighs, and she felt herself weaken with each tender lick and caress. She untied his kerchief and used it to blindfold him. He ceased his ministrations as he realized her game. Mary hopped down from the piano and started to undress Matthew. She tickled his bare chest. And when it came time to remove his trousers, she took his hand and let him only steps away to the large, plush rug in front of the magnificent gas fireplace.

"I'm going to lie down," Mary instructed Matthew as she removed his trousers. She made sure to stroke him intimately, if only casually, teasingly, as she did so. And then, to further test his limits, she redressed him in only his chaps. Matthew's blindfolded face was still extremely expressive at this time delay, and he groaned in frustration.

"I want to be acquainted with this mountain you spoke of," she teased. "I want to come around it... again...and again."

"As you wish," Matthew growled as he ripped the blindfold from his face and crawled towards her with a look of deliciously amorous need. "Remember my solemn vow: I'd do anything for you, Mary," he said playfully.

Matthew's face was smashed against the carpet. He was lying on his stomach next to the grand piano, sound asleep. And he was wearing nothing but a pair of chaps.

Mary gingerly sat up and surveyed her parents' penthouse den. The steady chime of the grandfather clock had awakened her, she realized. The room was adorned with their discarded clothing sprinkled about like confetti. She rubbed her eyes with a feeling of sleepy bliss. But then she froze as she heard the distant sound of the front door slamming. The echo was far away and yet crystal clear. Her first concern was not that she was naked, but that Matthew was. And her parents were home a day early.

"Matthew," Mary said frantically as she tried to wake him. He had a silly grin plastered on his face and refused to acquiesce to her demands. She heard large, heavy footsteps approaching, and, though she knew how much her father loved Matthew, there were also certain things that he should never see. She pinched her fiancée's earlobes, and he only batted her hands away. Time was not on her side. A throat was cleared just around the corner.

"Lady Mary," addressed the voice. She froze, hunched over, trying to conceal her naked body by using Matthew's equally naked form as a shield. The voice was not her father's, but the penthouse's security coordinator, Mr. Carson. She exhaled her panicked breath.

"Your parents have arrived home early. They will be in the sunroom off the library when you and your fiancée are ready to greet them. Breakfast we be served shortly afterwards."

His footsteps then quickly trailed away after this announcement.

"Matthew!" Mary hissed again, and, this time, she punctuated her insistence with a kiss, finally earning a response. With all the modesty possible, his agile mind quickly grasped the predicament they had only narrowly escaped. His movements were almost comically frantic as he searched for his missing clothing. They only succumbed to the need for further kissing twice as they finished dressing.

As they made their way hand in hand towards the sunroom to politely greet her parents, they passed Mr. Carson in the hallway. His seemingly stern gaze softened just for a second, and he winked.

* * *

_Mary looked up from her book, her mind wondering as she couldn't focus. She was shocked to see her friend, Lucy, standing awkwardly just outside the hospital room. Mary glanced at Matthew, his eyes closed as he was on the cusp of falling asleep. She waited for Lucy to speak first. _

"_I'm sorry," Lucy said quietly, stepping forward. She noticed Matthew and whispered, "For everything." The words hung between them for a moment before she continued. "Can I buy you a cup of coffee?" she asked with a genuine smile of compassion. "We could talk…."_

"_I think that's a great idea," Matthew's sleepy voice said, his hooded eyes now open._

"_Oh, hello, Matthew," Lucy said with some hesitation as she addressed him. _

"_Hello, Lucy," he replied cordially without delay._

_The weight on Mary's shoulders lessoned, and she released a breath she didn't even know she had been holding. She thought about Matthew's grief over William, and she had a new appreciation for Lucy._

"_Go," Matthew urged his wife before yawning. _

"_The hospital cafeteria does a passable latte," Mary conceded, stating the terms of their truce. She watched Lucy flinch in confusion, obviously surprised they would be staying on the premises. But she nodded and gestured for her to lead the way. Mary was impressed by the effort her friend was making. Even if it was long overdue, it was a good start. She kissed Matthew and left with Lucy to make amends. _

* * *

Thanks for reading I hope you enjoyed this chapter!

"Yeehaw!" – As Mary would say. *Author blushes*

I eagerly await any feedback and reviews. Also don't forget to check tumblr for posts that correspond to this chapter and this AU universe!


	11. Basic Physics of Rowing

_Mary was perched on Matthew's hospital bed. After she'd described William's funeral to him in as much detail as she could remember and he could bear, her husband was silent. He closed his eyes. Matthew looked almost sea sick as he tried to digest the information. She squeezed his hand, but he didn't respond. Every day was a tidal wave; there was no shelter from the storm. It was rather heartbreaking, as she thought about how much Matthew enjoyed rowing, that he couldn't stomach the shifting current of their new reality. And yet as she watched Matthew escape into what she hoped would be a dreamless sleep, she allowed herself to go back to a very pleasant memory. _

* * *

Mary felt like a drowned wharf rat as Matthew held out his hand to fish her out of the Thames. She was finally starting to understand chaos theory. It was five o'clock in the morning in the neighborhood of Putney, and she had absolutely no idea what she was doing. Climbing into Matthew's boat had been harder than she had anticipated. She had not followed all of his instructions, and had consequently lost her balance. After Mary toweled herself off, she felt brave enough to try again, this time paying more attention. Mary was at least relieved that none of her social acquiesces would ever find her in this borough of London.

"The basic physics of rowing..." Matthew began with excitement. Mary could only smile at his passion. He was definitely getting carried away and yet his enthusiasm was contagious. She would have liked to reward this frenzy of words with a round of kisses, but she did not want to needlessly rock the boat. Instead, she settled for blowing him a kiss. She used her finger to mimic an old rotary dial phone in the air and then made the gesture with her hand for of a phone call. Mary then fanned herself, implying how heated his scientific explanations were to her and that she was very turned on. Matthew blushed at her flirtatious antics before he continued speaking.

"A boat accelerates through the action and reaction principle," Matthew said calmly as the boat swayed. When Mary rolled her eyes at him he smiled and continued, "This is Isaac Newton's third law of motion." He demonstrated by putting his oar, or "blade," as he called it, into the water. "When you move the blade one way, the boat moves the other way. The momentum, which is the mass times velocity, you are exerting into the water will be opposite to the momentum acquired by the boat."

"My darling," Mary said with a smirk, "I do love your maths pillow talk, but it's far too early in the morning to even begin to understand what you are talking about."

Matthew took a deep breath of the fresh summer air. Rowing had always been his favorite sporting activity, but, like maths, it was a part of himself he had always kept somewhat hidden. Mary joining him on this beautiful July morning was a spectacular vision. He was enjoying all of her grumbling as she feigned resistance to the activity.

In the early light before dawn, the whisper of her outline made her seem especially angelic. Matthew locked eyes with his fiancée. He admired how her long, wet chestnut hair had been effectively pinned up and the style superbly framed her face. She was wearing a sun visor and her clothes were neat and formal for this occasion, even if they were still damp. Matthew couldn't help but stare at the wet tee-shirt displayed before him. Her breasts were perky from her dip in the warm water. All kinds of aquatic recollections spun inside his mind and he felt his body react to the memories of making love in a bathtub in New York and a shower in Vienna.

"I must tell you," Mary said seductively, "that I am very distracted, and you are to blame. I am having a lot of risqué thoughts centered around those skimpy, skin-tight rowing shorts you're wearing."

It seemed they were on the same wavelength. Matthew smiled at her self-assuredly. On the water, he felt more confident than ever. A part of him was thrilled that she could see him as athletic, and his ego did back flips. Matthew knew he would have to work extra hard to make up for Mary's inexperience. But he was not worried; in fact, he relished the opportunity to show off.

"The anatomy of a rowing stroke," Matthew began the lesson with jaunting of his chin as if to imitate an absent-minded professor. "While a rowing stroke may appear fluid, it is made up of four sequential elements: the catch, the drive, the finish, and the recovery."

"The cat that drove to Finland is in recovery," Mary repeated playfully with a serious expression of concentration on her face. He smiled at her antics and couldn't help laughing at her mischievous rewording.

"Every action has an equal and opposite reaction," Matthew continued. "End of physics lesson," he concluded with a wide grin on his animated face.

"Mary," he addressed her, pointing to the oars that she was holding as props. "Position each oar so the concave side is facing the stern of the scull," Matthew said and demonstrated with his own oars. With his free hand, he tapped his nose several times to indicate a secret trick was about to be shared. "Loosely grasp each one at the end of the grip. Your thumbs should be on the outside of the oar. The fewer ripples the more functionally effective the rowing will be."

"Now," Matthew said stilling his own movements. "Show me," he instructed.

Mary felt her movements were terribly clumsy as her oars made loud splashes. She scowled and tried again with determination. The oars were a cumbersome burden that had no finesse when she touched them.

"The energy of the force needed to propel the boat with the exertion on the oars comes from straitening your legs as your row with your arms. That way you can throw your weight around as you thrust with your upper body," Matthew further instructed.

"Darling, I'm trying to concentrate," Mary said with annoyance. "Must you really say, 'thrust with your upper body?' That is monumentally distracting, especially since you are wearing those shorts," Mary purred lustfully. She licked her lips as her eyes raked over him. "You look positively cocky," she teased.

An idea occurred to Matthew, one that he hoped would catch her by surprise. He tried to keep his expression and his voice neutral as he resumed giving her instructions.

"The oar's motion needs to be smooth and relaxed, but not necessarily quick," Matthew instructed. "Just like sex," he said with an amorous grin.

Mary threw her head back with loud, wild laugh at his unexpected comment. Matthew laughed with her and winked. He flexed his arm muscles for her to appreciate. Matthew decided it was time for their departure. He turned around, climbing back into the front seat and pushed their boat off the dock. Mary felt a whoosh of air and was amazed at how quickly they were leaving everything behind despite her minimal contributions. She was sitting in the stroke seat of the scull, which was behind Matthew. From her position, Mary was able to fully appreciate his technique. She was fascinated at how elegantly he was maneuvering their boat. And she couldn't help but be slightly hypnotized by the way the muscles in his back rippled from the exertion.

They sailed swiftly down the Thames into the spectacular sunrise. Mary had never felt so awed by her natural surroundings before. The blood red of the rising sun reflected on the blue water as they floated. It was as though they were sailing on flames but were untouched and protected. Mary could easily conjure up images from famous painters such as Turner and Monet who had painted the Thames; and yet the beauty she was witnessing could not compare to even the greatest of art. They glided forward towards the beacon of light.

"Matthew." She breathed his name because of the unexpected splendor that held her transfixed. It was no wonder that he loved rowing. The sky held orange and shades of yellow and it bounced playfully off the ripples of the water.

"_Thou, sun, art half as happy as we_," Matthew quoted, his emotion-rich voice only a soft grunt as he worked to keep them in position. "When my father took me rowing," Matthew said reverently. "he always said that to me."

Mary listened, enraptured by his tender, heartfelt words.

"I've never shared his words with anybody, Mary," Matthew paused, "not even my mother." She could hear the thick emotion in his voice.

"Darling," Mary said, speaking loudly so he could not miss her candid words. She wanted him to know she would never neglect the sentiments he was sharing with her. Mary knew it took courage for him to share, especially since his confession when they returned from Vienna.

"I had no idea rowing could be so spellbinding," she paused and then continued. "As Voltaire said, "_Je ne sais pas où je vais, mais je suis sur mon chemin._"

"I don't know where I am going, but I am on my way," Mary translated. To her, Matthew was parallel to the sunrise. For when it dawned on her how much she loved this man, it had opened her eyes to the magnificence all around her. She watched him rowing; his movements were confident and beautiful, Mary thought as he continued to guide them into the morning sunrise. And she thought proudly, _he is all mine_.

Mary couldn't wait to divest him of his skin-tight, skimpy rowing shorts.

* * *

_Matthew listened to Mary as she described William's funeral. All that he could think about was Dauðalagið, the death song by William's favorite band Sigur Ros. He heard the melody in his head as he thought about his friend. Matthew had once before known the pain of sudden death with the loss of his father. And so he simply let the music in his head overtake him. It was the only coping mechanism that would allow him to feel he was paying his respects to his friend. Matthew gave in to the darkness and slept._

* * *

In his dream, Matthew was in a small boat sailing through the lush scenery of a tropical rainforest. He saw himself at the age he was when his father had died, a boy who had recently turned thirteen years old. Matthew felt inconsequential in his impressive surroundings. The sun was hot and demanding. He felt sunburn across his face and body. The burning sensation intensified on his back, and he flinched at the spreading pain.

"Matthew," his father said, "the rainforest is the world's best chemist. Look," he commanded him, "the blue morpho butterfly, one of the icons of the rainforest." Matthew watched the small creature's wings flap, making him think about the butterfly effect.

"Watch carefully, my boy," his father said as their boat came to a halt. "I need it for a specimen." Matthew couldn't help but cringe at the severity of his father's unexpected movements. He was scared all of a sudden. His papa seemed to have sacrificed his truly gentle temperament for this quest.

"This could change everything," his father said with a gleam in his eyes as he captured the butterfly.

Matthew knew something was wrong. It was as though his father's out-of-character actions had provoked outrage in their natural surroundings. There were repercussions. Matthew looked around at the rainforest. The lush canopy of tress was blocking the sky, and it was suddenly ominously dark. Matthew found his gaze then drawn to the butterfly in the glass jar. It fluttered helplessly against its cage. He couldn't help it; he started to cry. the fact that he couldn't control his emotions had always baffled him. Matthew shook, but not from his crying. There was a great booming noise in the distance that rocked the boat. Through his tears, he caught a glimpse of a volcano through the lush greenery. It was erupting. Matthew could see lava running down the volcano.

"Papa," he cried desperately. _"I have no control,"_ he wanted to say, and yet the words didn't come. Everything seemed to be happening at once and he had no time to react.

"Matthew," Reginald spoke calmly, "I don't know what is going to happen, but you must be brave." The boat violently rocked and swayed.

Matthew awoke with a gasp. He needed to feel the intensity of his injury so that he could trust he wasn't still trapped in his nightmare. Matthew felt sticky and clammy, still trapped in the jungle's heat. He purposefully tried to move, and instantly he felt the TLSO turtle shell back brace painfully chafe. And then Matthew remembered Mary's description of William's funeral, and his heartbeat pressed like a jackhammer throughout his chest.

When he opened his eyes, he saw he wasn't alone. In the corner of his vision, he could see there was a nurse at the foot of his bed. She smiled kindly at him. And so he started to cry with relief that it had been a dream.

"Matthew," he heard his name, so soft, crisp and clear. But who was saying it? He felt panic. His father's voice was so strongly pounding in his head from his nightmare. The tears were hot as they fell down his face. He struggled for each breath.

"My boy..." He heard the words and was claimed. He was free, somehow. His mother's voice was a lifeline, pulling him away from his nightmare once and for all. She must have been the nurse at the foot of his bed.

"Mother," he responded quietly, and she smiled at him. He felt a tickle in his throat as he took a deep breath which resulted in a cough. Suddenly, he had to pinch his eyes shut as a wave of nausea hit him. The simple motion of coughing spiraled through him like an eruption. A radiating pulse of pain was throbbing up and down the back of his legs, tingling and awakening the memory of the broken vertebra in his spine. The pinched nerves from his compression fractures had given him temporary sciatica. And yet the physical pain did not upset him in these circumstances: it had heavy competition in the form of his grief.

"Matthew," he heard his name again. "Do you want to tell me about the nightmare?"

"_No,"_ he answered briskly. He had a completely different need at the moment. "Can we talk about papa instead?" he said tentatively.

"Of course," his mother said with affection. She picked up his free hand and squeezed it.

"I've been thinking a lot about your father lately. I've even been talking to Mary about him and quoting Proust!" Isobel said with bittersweet nostalgia.

"Mary loves anything French," Matthew said quietly, his lips quivering, "What was the quote Papa used to say about time, it was Proust wasn't it? I remember Papa but not Proust."

Isobel tilted her head and squeezed his hand.

Her voice was confident as she spoke. "Yes, your Papa loved Proust," she said with an encouraging smile. "I'd heard him say that quote a thousand times. '_Time, which changes people, does not alter the image we have retained of them_.'"

There was inexplicable comfort in his mother's words, in the knowledge that he did accurately remember his father. However, the respite did not last long. The arrival of a nurse with his morning breakfast tray was a new set-back to his mood. He stared at the food, a new enemy to focus his rage and anxiety on. Each completely unappetizing offering held some critical vitamin that would supposedly aid his recovery. All he wanted was the peppermint tea. As he sipped it, his mind wandered as his mother chatted about hydrotherapy and how he would be meeting his new physical therapist today. Matthew felt as weak and useless as a child on the first day of school. Except that he had never attended school, as his mother had tutored him at home until he went to Cambridge. He could not handle school as a child, and the feelings of freakish isolation threatened to return and consume him. "_Papa, I have no control_," rang in his head.

Yesterday he had been scheduled to begin the hydrotherapy, but unexpectedly, the normal levels of pain had spiked beyond his comprehension. An epidural of steroids had been injected into his back when the pain did not respond to the medication he was taking. The rest of the day was a lost cause. He was marooned in this dark despair all around him, buoyant only with pain.

Instead of reading him maths, though, Mary was sharing her favorite distractions. She had been reading him poetry. Matthew remembered telling her he felt like Wordsworth's poem; he did feel he was _wandering as lonely as a cloud_. It was at this pitiful compliant that his beautiful wife had stopped the fluid motion she was performing of gathering her long hair into a ponytail. The hair fluttered down as she dropped it from her hands, as if it no longer mattered. She flipped her hair playfully in his direction, letting it cascade over him, tickling his skin. Her hair had a rich, nutty scent mingled with honey. The name of Mary's favorite shampoo was Godiva, and it was a very fitting description of the way his wife provoked action when challenged. She leaned forward and told him that the day was not a set-back. It was like dancing: two steps forward and one step back. It was all a part of the bigger picture of his recovery, and he was going to make a full recovery.

"Excuse me," a deep and distinguished voice said. It drew Matthew's attention, as if the words were a knock on the door. The tall man who stood there was dressed in green scrubs. Although he had a youthful appearance, his hair was tinged with gray.

"Nurse Crawley," he said with esteem, "it is very pleasant to see you again."

Isobel smiled and nodded. It had been a long interview process, but she believed she had found someone who could work successfully with her son.

"Matthew, let me introduce you to Asadullah Waubay."

"Asad, please," he said graciously with a warm smile on his face. He stepped forward and extended his hand.

As Matthew shook it, he saw numerous scars on the dark skin. Their eyes met and Matthew felt embarrassed for having stared. And so he was quiet as the stranger pushed him through the hospital hall towards their destination. Finally, they went through a set of doors and Matthew saw a pool twice the size of a large bathtub. It was equipped with a chair lift as well as wide handicap access stairs. The water had an iridescent glow about it and appeared to be heated.

"We're about to start over, Matthew," Asad said, holding out his scarred hands, ready to help his patient.

"The water is a therapeutic 34 degrees Celsius," Asad said, chatting amiably, "which means the water is about as hot as the temperature in my birth country of Sierra Leone. My home town of Freetown has sandy beaches and lush forested hills speckled about the coast."

Matthew couldn't help thinking about his dream again. The description he had just mentioned fit the location of his tropical nightmare. He was barely aware of how his robe was removed as he sat in his stupor. And then, to his surprise, he felt himself maneuvered with stealth from the wheelchair into the lift chair. A tiny inkling of relief pressed through him as he was submerged. The water was warm and soothing. He knew the warm water was supposed to combat and alter his perception of pain, being especially beneficial for lower back injuries. He understood the physics.

"After five minutes your blood pressure and pulse rates will start to drop. On this first session, we're not going to do any exercises, Matthew," Asad said as his strong, scarred hands vigilantly held the chair in place in the warm water. Matthew flexed his toes, captivated by how easy the fluid movement could be achieved. Matthew bit his lip as he shuddered a sudden breath. The warm water was disrupting the signal of pain that emanated from his body, just as predicted.

"You are very resilient Matthew, almost like a Sierra Leonean," Asad said genuinely meaning the compliment. "Despite the troubles of the past, blood diamonds and the civil war, my countrymen have a reputation as the world's most resilient people." The pride was obvious in his voice as he talked.

"Sometimes," Asad continued, "I want to go back, because I still think of Sierra Leone as my home. But I'm not brave enough." Asad's voice was reflective and genuinely poignant. "Despite the horror that made my family flee, now what I remember is only the good of my native land." He looked at the serene face of his therapist. Matthew wondered again about his age, presumably they were close contemporaries. Asad paused before asking a question.

"Does this make sense, Matthew?"

"Yes," he was able to whisper. "I understand." Matthew didn't know what was happening to him. But Asad's words about escape and compartmentalizing did made sense. He took a shaky, deep breath. There was not only stability, but consistency to what they had discussed.

"Time's up," Asad said, and there was no further talking between them. With expert finesse, his therapist assisted him, but everything was a blur. Matthew felt a strange, foreign sense of peace hovering just around him. Suddenly, they had arrived back at his hospital room. The white sheets of the hospital bed almost glowed, he was so exhausted. Matthew wouldn't say he felt better, but even feeling numb was an improvement.

"Next time, we will do more," Asad assured confidently as he said goodbye. Matthew nodded.

Suddenly, he was alone in the hospital room. He was extremely lethargic, but his mind couldn't bully him anymore. It had switched off. Matthew tried to take a deep breath but it quickly became a yawn. The door to his room clicked open. He opened his eyes and recognized his wife. She spun in a circle before him with a wide, charismatic smile on her beautiful face. In a day of surprising sensations that had actually given him comfort and relief, Mary's actions took the cake, so to speak. She laughed lovingly at his stunned reaction.

"What have you done to yourself?" he finally said in bemusement. Matthew gaped at his wife. It was all gone, he thought in amazement.

"Now we both have something to recover from," Mary said flippantly. She approached and settled herself as close as possible to him on his hospital bed. The message hit him loud and clear. The loss of her long, chestnut locks of hair did nothing to alter his belief in her beauty.

The pixie haircut made her positively beam.

"I did it for you," Mary said with a kiss as she framed his face with her hands. He brushed his fingers through what little hair remained.

"Do you like it?" she asked, her forehead leaning on his as she stooped over.

Matthew kissed her with all of his pent up love, hoping it would answer her question.

* * *

Thanks for reading!

I love reviews so please feel free to comment.

My _Colossal_ thanks from the bottom of my heart to R. Grace.

Also worthy to note - check out my tumblr - wdedalus.


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